


Sense of the Soul

by UmbraeCalamitas



Series: Sense of the Soul [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Ron Weasley, Because I can, Bill Weasley: Badass, Cadbury!verse, Canon until Book 5, Cursebreaker, Depression, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Friendship isn't easy, Gen, Grief/Mourning, It all goes downhill from there, It's time travel, M/M, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, References to fantasy literature, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Seer Ron Weasley, Survivor Guilt, The Author Regrets Nothing, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Vampires, Wizard's Oath, but not really, it's complicated - Freeform, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-10-29 00:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 60,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10842981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UmbraeCalamitas/pseuds/UmbraeCalamitas
Summary: When Ron remarks to his wife that seer blood runs in his family, it open up a possibility that none of them had considered - that they could go back and change it all.





	1. Falling Backward

**Author's Note:**

> Because, of all the things I need to do in my life, starting a new fic is one of them. 
> 
> This thing has been haunting my brain for about a year and I finally gave in and decided to write it. So here you are, a new Harry Potter fanfic. For those of you reading _The Search For Life and Death_ , I'll eventually get back to it, though I've lost some of my taste for where I was going with it. Hopefully this will help with that need to go a different direction and I can get back to it. 
> 
> I'm not going to have notes before chapters unless it's necessary after this, so let's get everything straight at the start.
> 
> I don't own Harry Potter. JK Rowling is a genius and I just like playing in her sandbox. She's nice enough to let me. 
> 
> This fanfic is AU, or Alternate Universe, and ignores the canonical ending to the books because in this story, things turned out badly enough that Ron and Hermione thought it would be better to have the past changed. And if Hermione is willing to mess with the time streams, you know shit went down. How things turned out "in the past" will be revealed eventually.
> 
> I am almost certainly going to have characters in here who are various sexual orientations other than heterosexual (straight). I myself am not straight. If you don't like reading about that, feel free to find another fic that will better suit your tastes. 
> 
> This fic will cover all seven years of Hogwarts and should be _very_ interesting. Those of you who read my other works know I like Ron and I think he's an awesome character and people bash him too much. This fic is basically Ron finally getting to be a badass for once.
> 
> I enjoy comments (who doesn't?), love suggestions, constructive criticism, etc, and I try to respond to everyone. I hope you'll take a brief moment at the end of the chapter to say a kind or constructive word. It certainly make writing more worthwhile when you know people are listening. 
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> \- Umbrae Calamitas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Ron send his soul back in time to correct the horrors of the world. He arrives abruptly.

**One**

**FALLING BACKWARD**

* * *

 

_ “ Our bodies have five senses: touch, smell, taste, sight, hearing. But not to be overlooked are the senses of our souls: intuition, peace, foresight, trust, empathy. The differences between people lie in their use of these senses; most people don't know anything about the inner senses while a few people rely on them just as they rely on their physical senses, and in fact probably even more.”  _

_ ―  **C. JoyBell C.** _

 

* * *

“Are you ready?”

Hermione peered up at her husband from where she was bent over pages and pages of notes scattered across the floor. Her long, bushy brown hair was in more of a disarray than usual, fluffy strands tumbling down in front of her eyes. There were heavy black bags under her eyes and crinkles in her forehead from a frown she had been wearing for days now. She met the familiar blue eyes of her husband before returning her gaze to her notes and shaking her head. “Not yet. Give me a minute.”

“Hermione, I gave you a minute ten minutes ago.” Ron was standing in the center of a magic circle, arms resting at his side, watching his wife with eager eyes and a knowing smile. “You've been over your notes a million times.”

She sighed. “It has  _ not _ been a million times,  _ Ronald _ .”

“Nearly,” he murmured and listened to her huff. “I trust you. I trust your gigantic brain. You know what you're doing so stop worrying.”

“I can't!” She stood up quickly, her hands jittering with nerves. “If I do this wrong... if I mess up, this is it. You're dead and I'm stuck here alone and maybe I'm selfish, but I can't take that! I cannot stay here alone!” She sniffed and brushed the tears from her face.

Ron wished he could go over and hug her, wipe her eyes, kiss away her fears, but he dared not leave the circle. This was the final part of the ritual and they had to get it right.

“Hermione.” Ron waited until she looked up at him. “I love you.”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “I love you,” she whispered back. Stepping over her notes and right up to the circle, she held her wand in one hand and Ron's in the other. 

They leaned forward, their lips meeting over the lines of the ritual circle. Ron tasted lemon tea and salty tears. It was a kiss he would remember forever.

Hermione stepped back. The tears were falling freely down her cheeks and she did nothing to wipe them away. This was the last time she would see her husband. She had a right to her tears. 

“Come and find me?”

Ron felt his own eyes give in, tears sliding down his cheeks. He would never seen this Hermione again. His wife. The love of his life. 

“Always,” he whispered. 

Hermione let out a sob and, before either of them could procrastinate any longer with a more painful goodbye, she slashed both wands down in a V, their tips meeting between her and her husband. 

There was a blinding flash of light and the world that had become became the one that never was.

* * *

“Ron? Ron!” Someone was shaking him.

“Stop, stop. Fred, go get Mum. Hurry.”

Someone was crouched down next to him. Ron could feel hands pressing against his neck, down his shoulders and arms, moving carefully. His mind was racing and lagging at the same time, trying to make sense of things. He'd been playing Quidditch with his brothers, but he'd been standing in front of his wife. His family was all home at the Burrow for the holidays, but half of his family had died in the war. He was ten, but he was twenty-three.

Somebody's hand pressed on his chest and Ron heard his name called but his mind was trying to make sense of Hermione's lips pressed up against his when he was ten and kissing was gross and

“Ow!” Ron shouted, though it came out more as a garbled groan as he rolled away from the knuckles that had been digging into his ribs. He buried his face in the tall grass of a meadow he knew so well and whined out a painful breath. 

“Easy,” he heard, the voice at his ear, and it actually took him a moment to recognize it. “Easy.”

“Bill.”

“Hey.” Long, calloused fingers gripped his arm and slid behind his neck, helping him roll over and lie back in the ground. His chest ached, but the pain from his brother’s ministrations was long gone. He could scarcely breathe through the pain in his heart and he felt the tears slide down from the corners of his eyes and drop in his ears. 

“What hurts, Ron?” Bill asked, his voice anxious. 

Ron wasn't paying attention to what he was saying, though. He was staring up at the rest of his siblings. Charlie was there too, his eyes narrowed into a concerned glare. Percy’s lips were pursed, but his face was pale and his eyes pinched. Ginny’s every freckle stood out stark in her white face and there were tear tracks down her face. George stood behind her, his wild hair in disarray, a bruise forming on his face, and no twin in sight. 

Ron sat up abruptly. “Where’s Fred?”

“Lie back down!”

“What do you mean?”

“Ron,  _ easy _ !”

“Don't move, Ron!”

Ron ignored the myriad of voices. Had they gotten it wrong? Had something happened and somehow Fred wasn't brought back? Was he erased from history? Was this an alternate universe, like Hermione had spoken about, instead of his own? 

He felt the panic building in his chest, his breathing picking up, and before Bill could force him back down, he screwed up his face and screamed “FRED!” as loud as he could. 

“What?”

His head whipped around to see Fred jogging over, his mum just behind, her face white with fear. 

“Ronald Bilius Weasley, lie back down this instant.”

Ron obeyed. With his brother - all of his brothers - in sight, the panic receded and he suddenly realized he wasp dizzy. He laid down on the grass and watched his mother wave her wand over him and discern  _ something  _ from the flashes of light. 

“Percy, go inside and floo call your father. Let him known I'm taking Ron to St. Mungo’s.”

This caused a whole new uproar, everyone trying to talk over each other, but Ron didn't pay attention. The dizziness had brought with it a shadow that creeped on the edges of his vision and brought a release from the growing ache in his head. His mother’s strident tone was a lullaby of relief that carried him into blackness. He went willingly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The technique that Bill uses to rouse Ron is called the [Sternal Rub](http://theemtspot.com/2009/11/17/test-for-unconsciousness-the-sternal-rub/). It's controversial in that many people disagree with using pain stimuli as a means of gathering someone's attention. With the wizarding world being so set back in time by tradition, I suspect that the argument against pain stimuli would be laughed away (house elf punishments, anyone?). With Bill being a Curse Breaker who has a penchant for tomb raiding, my headcanon is that he would need to know first aid to heal any of his raiding partners were they to get injured, which I'm sure happens often. Hence not only his use of the Sternal Rub, but his careful, non-magical checking for broken bones. 
> 
> For those interested, my view of Bill and his work has been greatly influenced by Mountain907's fantastic fanfic, [Harry Potter and the Cursed Summer](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5915140/1/Harry-Potter-and-the-Cursed-Summer). I often go back and reread it and I _highly_ recommend it.


	2. Seeking Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur thinks about what the healer had to say about Ron and the newest development in their youngest son.

**Two**

**SEEKING ANSWERS**

* * *

 

Arthur Weasley sighed as he placed his briefcase on the floor by the table and wearily sank into a chair. It had been an exceedingly long day. When he received the Floo call from Percy at work, he knew something was wrong. His children rarely interrupted him while he was at the Ministry. 

He left work immediately to meet Molly at St. Mungo’s, finding her talking with a Healer Acheson, one of the elder healers who had been at the hospital for longer than Arthur had been alive. It had been a relief to hear that Ron would make a full recovery. Percy had managed to hold his composure admirably at the start of the Floo call, but when Arthur had asked what happened, his normally stoic son had burst into tears. They had been playing Quidditch like they so often did when the whole lot of them were home, having a grand old time. None of them had seen what happened to cause it, but Ron had fallen from his broom from thirty feet in the air. None of his siblings were close enough to catch him once they realized he was falling. He’d hit the ground hard enough to shatter his spine, though how he hadn’t was a miracle of youth.

_ “Had it been one of your elder children, I doubt I would have such good news,” Healer Acheson said as they three of them stood in the hall just outside Ron’s room. “One of the blessings of youth is their proclivity for accidental magic. His magic recognized that he was in danger and must have cushioned the ground beneath him to prevent harm. And even for accidental magic, it was quite a strong effect. Thirty feet is no short distance to fall. I daresay your son has quite a bit of power if he was able to instinctively protect himself from any harm.”  _

_ “When I did a diagnostic scan on him, though,” Molly said, her worry making her voice shrill, “the results were so chaotic I was unable to read them.” _

_ Healer Acheson nodded. “Yes, they were much the same way when we first scanned him here, though he has since settled for the most part.” He eyed the both of them for a moment. “Forgive me for what may seem an abrupt change of topic, but I assume you are aware of the Weasley’s gift for foresight.”  _

_ Molly and Arthur shared a bemused look before they both nodded.  _ _ “Yes,” Arthur said. “My great grandmother was a powerful Seer, though the gift has waned in our family through the last few generations. I understand one of my great aunts has a strong intuition often attributed to a latent gift in Sight, but it otherwise hasn’t been seen in our family for generations.” _

_ Healer Acheson smiled softly. “It appears your particular family is bringing back more than just daughters in the line of Weasley. That gift has also chosen to make a return."  _

_ Arthur’s eyes widened. “Ron?” _

_ “Yes, Arthur, Molly. It is very clear on our scans that your son has the Sight. He practically glows with it. I wouldn't be surprised if he woke up tomorrow and told you what his OWL scores will be in five years." _

_ “But he’s never given any indication before,” Molly fretted.  _

_ “No, and I’m not surprised. Gifts such as these tend to trigger sometime around the age when a child is due to go to school. Their magic begins to stabilize and they’re better able to access it. This is why they're sent to school at age eleven, but their magic recognizes that they're magically mature enough to handle the effects, so the gifts manifest. In this case, a vision. No doubt the cause of his abrupt tumble from his broom.”  _

_ For a while, both Arthur and Molly were silent, their thoughts whirling. Never would they have considered the possibility of any of their children having the Sight. “What do we need to know to help him through this, Healer Acheson?” _

_ The healer smiled gently at them. “Fortunately, this is not the first time I’ve encountered a child who has manifested a unique gift. My first suggestion would be to reconnect with those members of your family who have a better recollection of these gifts. If nothing else, they will have stories to tell and that is, of course, where all learning starts.”  _

Molly was up in Ron’s room, tucking the unconscious boy into bed. He’d be doused with a potion that would keep him sleeping through the night and well into the afternoon. It was unnecessary, Healer Acheson had been sure, but a precaution to allow his mind to heal from any damage that may have been caused by the sudden arrival of his gift. 

The Sight.

Arthur swept his hand over his head, removing his cap and dragging it over his thinning hair. Most of both his and Molly’s family had passed away years ago. The few that remained were distant cousins they didn’t know well or had lost contact with over the years. Molly had a cousin they spoke to occasionally, but as he lived in America and had a job he wasn’t permitted to discuss that stole much of his time, they spoke only once or twice a year, sometimes less.

He was fairly certain he was the oldest living member of the Weasley clan, the rest younger cousins who hadn’t been the same age as him growing up. They’d run in different generational circles and didn’t know each other very well, and none of them had been close to the members of the family who were well-versed in the Sight. Too young or simply disinterested. 

He breathed out a sigh. 

“Arthur?” Molly asked, as she came down the stairs. She'd clearly heard his despondent breathing.

He looked at his wife, her face still pinched with worry but much calmer than she had been some hours ago. 

“I believe I may have to find if there’s a portrait of my Great Grandmother buried somewhere. She’d be the best person to ask about this.” 

Molly smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re overlooking someone, Arthur.” She turned and began to bustle around the kitchen to make a late supper. The lot of them had skipped lunch and she knew her growing boys would be hungry. She'd sent them out to clean up the mess of their Quidditch game, which had been left in shambles as they made their way to St. Mungo's. They'd be back in shortly for food and she'd need to be prepared. 

“Am I?” Arthur asked, his head popping up in surprise. He sorted through members of his family but couldn’t think of anyone he had missed. “Who?”

“Dumbledore." She smiled at him as she waved her wand at a vegetable peeler, which immediately began skinning cucumbers for a plate of sandwiches. "If anyone were to know anything about the Sight that would be helpful to us, it would be him.”

Arthur sighed in relief. “Right you are, dear. Of course.” He stood and kissed her. “I’ll make a Floo call right now.” 

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk, carefully unwrapping a lemon drop as his eyes scanned the list of new students who would be starting the next year. He always enjoyed taking the week following the end of the school year to sit and see who would be joining them at Hogwarts. Some he knew by their elder siblings or parents, some by the grandparents, and some he did not recognize by name at all. How exciting!

Of course, young Mister Potter would be starting this coming year, finally being brought back into the world of magic from his hiding place in the muggle world. Lucius Malfoy’s son, Draco, would also be starting, as well as the Weasley’s youngest son, Ronald. Ah, and Amelia Bones’ niece, Susan. It would certainly be an interesting year. Of course, the Weasley twins were still attending, so that went without saying. Those two were almost as bad as their uncles had been. Almost!

His fireplace gave off a cheerful chime that hummed in the air as though his office were a bell tower. Albus turned his attention to the grate as the flames burst green and then someone’s head appeared to hover in them. 

“Arthur! How wonderful to see you!” he said, delighted at the man’s appearance. “What can I do for you, my boy?”

“Good evening, Headmaster,” Arthur said politely. “I apologize for calling so late.” 

“Oh, no need to apologize, Arthur. As I grow older, I find myself less inclined to waste precious remaining hours on sleep.” He rose from his chair and approached the fireplace. “What is it that’s troubling you?”

“Molly and I just returned from St. Mungo’s. Our youngest son had an accident this afternoon while playing Quidditch.”

_ Oh dear.  _ “I do hope young Ronald is all right.” 

“Yes,” Arthur said, warmth filling his voice. It was always nice to know how the Headmaster kept up with their family enough to know their children by name, even the ones he hadn’t met yet. “The healer we spoke with says he will be fine.” 

“Wonderful!”

“But there was also something of a… surprise that we could use your advice on.”

“Oh?" he asked, curiosity filling his voice and giving his old bones strength enough to kneel before the fire. "Do tell, Arthur.” 


	3. Looking Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron realizes that the spell worked even better than he and Hermione had expected.

**Three**

**LOOKING BACK**

* * *

Ron woke to the uncomfortable feeling of his bladder begging for relief. He rolled ungracefully out of bed and staggered into the loo. He washed his hands in the sink and swept back his sweaty locks with a damp hand, looking up into the mirror--

He clamped his hands over his mouth to cut off the shriek he’d been about to admit and stared into the mirror.

Merlin’s saggy shorts - he’d done it!

He stared at his reflection, cataloguing the differences. He was so much shorter than he had been the last time he looked in a mirror. The scars that had been on his face from one too many close encounters with Death Eaters were gone, only his freckles marring his flesh. Both of his arms were unmarred. He touched his left shoulder, trailing his hand down the skin of his arm and marveling in the sensation. He had lost his left arm near the end of the war, running right into an ambush. Only his fast reflexes and a shout from Hermione had kept him from losing his head, but the cutting curse had still sliced clean through bone, cutting the limb off at his shoulder. He’d nearly bled out, only saved by Harry’s quick casting and Hermione’s foresight to have them all learn healing spells. If not for her thinking ahead, he would have died there. 

Even so, the arm had been lost. With St. Mungo’s long since overtaken by Voldemort, there’d been no way for him to attain a prosthetic that would allow him to work with two hands again in the way that Moody’d had his magical peg leg. He’d been left to learn how to live without the arm, unbalanced and unable to do things that required two hands for a long time until he learned to adapt. It had been a trying time and he hadn’t been in the best temper for a while. He regretted that. He suspected it was a mix of his temper and guilt which had eventually driven Harry away and led toward the end of it all.

He lifted his eyes from his unblemished arm and looked back in the mirror. His red hair stuck up all over the place in an extreme case of bedhead that reminded him of Harry’s uncontrollable hair so much he had to laugh. He ran a hair through his hair and just messed it up even more. 

He was back. 

“We did it, Hermione,” he whispered. 

More than that, he’d come back further than they had anticipated. The ritual they had used would lock on his innate ability to foretell the future, something that he and Hermione had argued about for months, and not because she was the one who thought it was hogwash.

_ “You’re mad, Hermione." He slammed the door shut as he stalked out of their room.  _

_ “I’m not done talking to you!” she shouted at his back, flinging the door open.  _

_ “You’re done making sense, so I’m done listening.”  _

_ “Ronald Bilius Weasley!” She stormed after him in all her frizzy-haired glory. “This is a bloody good idea and you know it!” _

_ It was her swearing that stalled him, he knew it. So did she, damn her. He spun around to face her. “I am not a Seer!” _

_ She made a sound of disbelief. “I never said you were.”  _

_ He scoffed. “Yes you--” _

_ “No. You told me Seer Blood runs in your family and I said that you’ve shown signs of having…” She seemed to chew on the word for a while, “foresight. I admit I used to think it was a load of garbage, but you’ve mentioned things in the past that, in hindsight, were frighteningly accurate.” She seemed to think a moment on those past events. “Usually when you were angry, actually. Huh.”  _

_ “Hermione.”  _

_ She returned her attention to him. “Look, I’m just saying that you showed signs of being able to… to know things. Not see them, but know them without knowing you’ve known them, and if Seer Blood runs in your family, then we might have a chance we didn’t even know we had.” She stepped forward and grabbed his hands. “Please, Ron." She squeezed his hands  in hers. "Trust me.”  _

She’d been right. Of course she’d been right, she was Hermione. The spell would send his soul - his memories - back to the first moment that he had begun to harness that innate power of foresight. Hermione and him had combed through their memories and they had thought the earliest he would return would probably be third year. Neither of them had even bothered to hope he would come back this far. 

“I haven’t even been to Hogwarts, yet.” 

He knew when he was. He had worried, before he came back, that he would struggle to recollect where and when he was when he arrived, but his memories as this younger Ron would as clear as though he had been living them to this point and just woke up from a very vivid dream. His brothers’ year at Hogwarts had just ended and they’d come home for the summer only a few days before. As this had been Charlie’s seventh year at Hogwarts, Bill had come home to help them all celebrate both that and Ron’s starting Hogwarts next year. With the whole family together, they of course decided to play a game of pick-up Quidditch. 

Thinking back with Hermione, he hadn’t recalled this day. It had just been one of those simple days before Hogwarts and meeting Harry and everything becoming so very complicated and dangerous (not that he would ever regret going to Hogwarts or meeting his best friend). But he hadn’t recalled this so very normal day, and so he hadn’t remembered flying above his brothers, preparing to intercept the Quaffle as it was passed between Bill and Charlie, and thinking suddenly that Chaser didn’t suit him. Thinking, so suddenly, that he was Ron Weasley, Gryffindor Keeper. Such an abrupt thought more like knowledge than a whim, a certainness that brought with it an image, sounds and smells. The high winds tears past him as one of his teammates flew by on their broom, the smell of sweat and salt and the coming cold of winter. The sounds of chanting from the stands.  _ “Weasley is our King! Weasley is our King!”  _ and someone on the loudspeaker announcing his name as Keeper of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. 

He remembered now that it had happened in the past, remembered thinking it a flash of vibrant imagining that would be nice but so unlikely - he’d never measure up to Charlie, who had been the best Seeker Gryffindor had ever seen, or Fred and George, a pair of Bludgers sitting on broomsticks themselves. Percy, so smart and rule-abiding, Bill, so cool and collected, Ginny, the only girl. He remembered passing it off as fanciful and never thinking of it again. Even when he sat on his broom in front of the Gryffindor goal posts to the sound of fans screaming “Weasley is our King! Weasley is our King!”, he didn’t think of it. 

But he remembered now. 

“Hermione, you’re a genius,” he murmured to himself. Even not knowing, somehow she had managed to save them all again. He was back, well before his first year of Hogwarts. He’d have time to prepare, he’d be able to meet people over again. He’d be able to change things. 

He’d be able to meet Hermione all over again. 

_ “Come and find me?” _

_ “Always.”  _

And this time, he would make a better impression with her. He wouldn’t be cruel like he had been in his last first year, driving her away and making it so hard for her. 

The two of them had talked about it as they grew older, once he’d stopped being a prat and grew up. She hadn’t had friends growing up, being a precocious child even without her love of learning made her something of an outcast. The fact that she’d skipped some grades - something he didn’t know people did in the muggle world, since it wasn’t done in the wizarding world - had only further ostracized her from her peers. The people she had been closest to were her parents and one school teacher who had been kind and encouraging, and who had passed away during her time at Hogwarts. 

Coming to Hogwarts had been her new start. She’d been looking forward to being around people who were as strange as she was, hoping to finally fit in, but having no friends and no siblings, her social skills were severely lacking. She’d been pushy and bossy in her nervousness and turned people off, and so the first part of her first year had been unpleasant, to put it lightly, and Ron hadn’t been kind. 

He would do better this time. He would be friends with her from the start, he wouldn’t be jealous of Harry every time something came up. And he wouldn’t slack off at everything, eventually making himself more of a liability in the future than a help. Sure, he didn’t like homework or essays or seemingly useless tasks like turning a rabbit into a pair of slippers, but if it gave him the skills he would need to help them defeat Voldemort, then he would make the fluffiest pair of bunny slippers McGonagall had ever seen. 

The fact that he would be able to spend more time with Hermione while studying with her would certainly be an incentive. 

He groaned. “We’re going to be spending  _ so much time  _ in the library.” He thunked his head down on the sink and whined. 

“Ron?” A knock came at the door. The sound of his mother’s voice was both expected and a surprise - a mix of his child mind from this time and his memory of her having passed away. He bit his lip and forced the tears back. He’d missed her so much, but this Ron, this eleven year old boy, had just seen her yesterday. 

“Ron, are you all right?”

He swallowed both his grief and an ecstatic happiness that bordered on hysteria. “Yeah, Mum.” He cleared his throat. “I’m… almost done.” 

“All right. Well, when you’re done, come downstairs for lunch.” 

_ Lunch?  _ How long had he been sleeping?

“Okay, Mum.”  

He listened to her walk back down the stairs. He grabbed a brush and dragged it hurriedly through his hair, then slipped into his room and changed into jeans and a Chudley Cannon’s T-shirt. Barefoot, he made his way downstairs. 

The table was filled with Weasleys, covered in platters of sandwiches and bowls of potato salad and macaroni salad - happy summer fare from his mother’s delicious recipe book. He took the empty seat next to Ginny, his stomach growling loudly as the smells met his nose. He was hungrier than he had realized, which was saying something considering how he could eat, and he piled his plate with three different types of sandwiches and a spoonful of potato and macaroni salad each. 

He was gnawing his way through a turkey sandwich when he realized Bill was staring at him, which meant that he was still here. 

_ “That’s repulsive, Ronald,”  _ rang in his head and he swallowed his mouthful before he spoke. Something that his brothers noticed. 

“I thought you had to go back to work, Bill.” 

His eldest brother was staring at him in a way very similar to the way Hermione stared at a potion she was working on. The look made him nervous and he hid that by shoving the rest of his sandwich into his mouth. 

This return to his repulsive eating habits, as Hermione put it, seemed to shake Bill from his staring. “I took a few extra days off,” he said, leaning back in his chair and taking a drink from his glass. “We’re not ready to take off yet, so I don’t need to be there until Friday.”

“That’s cool.” And it was. They didn’t get to see Bill very often. He’d left Hogwarts and immediately gone into taking some extra classes, following up his knowledge of Ancient Runes, Charms, and Transfiguration, which eventually netted him a job with the Gringott’s goblins as a cursebreaker. It allowed him to travel the world and investigate various sites spelled with magical and mundane traps, breaking through and finding the hidden treasures within. But because he was constantly traveling and off on “missions,” they didn’t get to see him often. It would be nice to spend some time with him, especially since Ron’s last memory of his eldest brother was his very violent death alongside his wife when Death Eaters attacked their wedding. The two had only been married for five minutes when they were cut down by a wave of killing curses. 

His horror at the memory must have shown on his face, because Bill’s expression turned concerned. “Ron? Are you all right?”

He blinked, shaking the memory away from him and taking a moment to just bask in the existence of his brother. “Fine.” He forced himself to grin. “So where are you going this time?”

Bill’s mouth turned up in a grin at the question. “Egypt, believe it or not. We’re going to check out some pharaoh’s tombs before the government releases them to muggle knowledge.”

“Wicked.” 

Bill’s job had always been really interesting to him. Charlie’s, too, though after the incident with the Norwegian Ridgeback in his first year, playing with dragons seemed too dangerous an occupation. Quidditch had always been his dream. Playing professional, Captain of the Chudley Cannons, taking the team to victory for the first time in years. 

Losing his arm had ruined that dream. If he’d been able to attain a prosthetic, he might have been able to play, with the loss of St. Mungo’s and the healers who worked there had destroyed most of the knowledge that would have made that possible. Hermione had been trying to come up with something but her knowledge of prosthetics wasn’t much better than his and they lacked the means of getting more. 

Things would be different this time. 

And, he thought, Bill just might be able to help him get started. 


	4. Telling Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus Dumbledore comes to visit Ron Weasley and it turns out to be a very different discussion than what he expected.

**Four**

**TELLING TALES**

* * *

 

Ron was finishing up the food on his plate when his dad walked into the kitchen. He stilled with his sandwich halfway to his mouth, confused. It was Tuesday and that meant his dad had to work. He wouldn’t be home unless something was wrong.

“Dad?” he asked, unsure. Had something happened? Nothing had happened before. Had he changed something? Had he messed up the time stream in a way he couldn’t fix? What was going on? What?

“The rest of you boys go on outside. We need to have a talk with Ron. Ginny, go with your brothers.”

The Weasley children got up and made their way out of the kitchen, some of them glancing back at Ron in concern or confusion, except for Bill. Bill continued to sit right across from Ron, relaxing back in his chair, looking for all the world like it had been planned that he remain.

“Bill.”

Bill looked at his father and put his glass back on the table. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m staying.”

“William Arthur Weasley, you are not,” Molly said and she came into the kitchen. “Go outside with your brothers and your sister.”

Bill turned his attention to his mother. “Mum, I’m an adult, and while this is your house, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t treat me like I was the same age as Fred and George. I also have more knowledge of arcane and archaic magics, which includes the sort of thing you’re going to be discussing. I’m staying.”

His mum looked ready to get out the loud voice and Ron cringed in his seat, thinking of smoking red envelopes and his mother’s shrieking voice echoing against the walls of the Great Hall.

“I think it’s a fine idea, Molly, Arthur.” Albus Dumbledore stepped into the kitchen, blue eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. “It’s wonderful to see you again, William.”

The headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry turned to the youngest son of the Weasley family and opened his mouth to introduce himself.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Ron said, startling the lot of them with his certainty.

Dumbledore closed his mouth, then smiled at the boy. “I suppose I’m hard to mistake for someone else, aren’t I?” he asked, grabbing the tip of his long beard and flapping it a few times. “Although, I have been called Merlin a few times, and I recall one memorable muggleborn student calling me Gandalf at one point.” He smiled at the memory. “But you have a number of older brothers to tell you tales, and certainly I’ve seen enough of Fred and George to have them give a good description.” Molly huffed at this, but Ron could see his father trying to hide a smile. “Is that how you knew who I was, my boy?”

Ron hesitated, wondering if he should tell the truth. Surely, if he didn’t, Dumbledore would know he was lying, but he and Hermione had discussed this and neither of them thought it was a good idea to reveal Ron’s future knowledge to the Headmaster. The man was powerful, certainly, and he meant well, but he had made a number of mistakes in his planning and if he thought that Ron’s knowledge was a danger, he might feel justified in erasing it. They couldn’t afford that.

He had apparently remained quiet long enough that Dumbledore inferred an answer, because he chuckled lightly. “It’s all right, my boy. That’s what I’m here to talk about.”

Ron really doubted it.

Dumbledore turned to his parents and, with a smile, said, “Perhaps we should move this to your sitting room.”

Arthur nodded and turned to his wife. “If you could get some tea going, Molly, that would be good.”

She eyed her eldest son for a moment but with Dumbledore’s approval, her fighting his inclusion wouldn’t likely yield good results. With a sigh, she turned and walked back into the kitchen to make some tea.

Ron followed his dad and Dumbledore into the sitting room. The headmaster settled into a ratty armchair that really didn’t suit him, but he tried to ignore how out of character it seemed, taking a seat on the far end of the couch. Bill sat down next to him and Arthur settled into another armchair. When Molly came in with a tray of tea and some small snack items, she set it on the table between them and settled into a rocking chair, shooing her knitting out of the way.

There were a few minutes where the adults fixed their tea cups to their liking. Ron was feeling out of sorts, not knowing what was going on. He nibbled on a biscuit nervously as he waited for the others to speak. Finally, after taking a long sip of his tea, Dumbledore set the cup back on its saucer and turned to him.

“Now, Ron, your father contacted me last night after you were brought home from St. Mungo’s.” Ron twitched. _St. Mungo’s?! What the hell?_ “Ah, I see you don’t recall being in the hospital.” Leaning back in the chair, which creaked ominously beneath him, the man steepled his fingers. “You had an accident while playing what I’m sure was a rousing game of pick-up Quidditch and fell from your broom. A serendipitous burst of accidental magic kept you from harm, but your mother took you to St. Mungo’s due to some readings she couldn’t decipher on her diagnostic spell. There, the healer revealed something very interesting.” He leaned forward in his chair and eyed Ron curiously. “I’d like to ask you a question, if I may. Do you mind?”

Ron slid his eyes over to his dad, but his dad just smiled at him in reassurance. Swallowing, Ron turned back to the Headmaster, though he was careful to look at the man’s nose or the point just above it. If he didn’t make direct eye contact, the Headmaster wouldn’t be able to read his mind. “Okay.”

Dumbledore smiled. “What is it that you find the strangest in this room right now?”

Ron almost slipped and looked at the man’s eyes for a moment, so thrown was he by the question. What was the strangest thing in the room? He was eleven again, that was the strangest thing, though he certainly couldn’t _say_ that.

So… what was the strangest thing in the room?

Ron found himself staring again at the ratty old chair creaking beneath Dumbledore’s weight. If it had been Hagrid who settled himself down, the chair wouldn’t have stood a chance. Even so, Ron wasn’t sure it would remain standing throughout the rest of this conversation, nevermind that the headmaster probably weighed a quarter what Hagrid did _without_ his moleskin coat.

“You didn’t conjure your own armchair,” his mouth said, before his brain could tell him to _shut up_. Before his brain had time to tell him to sit still, he’d clamped his hands over his mouth.

Dumbledore smiled kindly at him, that reassuring grandfatherly smile that Harry had once admitted made him feel like Hogwarts was even more of a home than it had been when he’d first arrived.

“It’s quite all right, my boy. You’re not in trouble. Your father asked me to come and talk to you after the healer who helped you at St. Mungo’s revealed your awakening to the Sight.”

Ron’s brain stalled, trying to process this new information. “What?” he asked stupidly.

“Ron,” his mum said gently, “Healer Acheson told us that your magic has matured enough that it’s allowed another magical skill to develop.” She looked to her husband.

“You know the stories I’ve told you kids about your great great Grandmother Weasley.” Both Ron and Bill nodded. “She was a powerful seer and that skill has run through the Weasley blood for as long as we can trace our line back. These past few generations, the skill has been either lost or very small, and so we thought that it was lost to our family. Much like we thought having daughters was lost to our family.” He smiled. “It seems I’ve been proven wrong twice over. I have both a daughter, as well as a son who is a seer.”

Ron stared at his father. All he could think was that if Hermione would here, she would be giving him that smug look and muttered, “I told you so, didn’t I, Ronald? When will you learn to listen to me?”

_Someday, dear, I promise._

Out loud he said, “I can’t be a seer. Charlie says Divination is a load of codswallop.” Charlie had taken Care of Magical Creatures and Divination as his career classes in third year. Care of Magical Creatures was a necessity as far as he was concerned, but like Ron had done in _his_ third year, Divination was an easy grade. It had disenchanted the both of them from the subject.

“Actually, it’s not,” Bill said. “Divination is a very real branch of magic, but because those who don’t have the gift can’t utilize it’s more well-known techniques, like visions or prophecies, it’s often mistakenly believed to be a hoax. Many cultures throughout the world, both magical and muggle, have means of divining the future for those who are willing to learn. What Professor Dumbledore is talking about is one of those abilities that can only be used by those with the gift. Seers have The Sight, which allows them to glimpse visions of the future. Do you remember having any sort of vision yesterday, during our Quidditch game?”

_Bloody hell, Hermione._

_“I told you so.”_ The knowledge of what she would have said cut into his heart. He wished she was here now with him. She’d know what to say.

He thought back to his memory of that first vision, so long ago and yet, for everyone else, just a day previous. Somehow, despite his eleven years in this body, he felt old.

“I saw…” _I saw myself as I will be in six years._ “I saw myself on the Quidditch Pitch at Hogwarts, playing Keeper for Gryffindor.”

Bill jerked in surprise. From Charlie’s vivid tales of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, the whole family knew all of the players. Oliver Wood had taken over the role of Keeper in Charlie’s fifth year and rumor had it he would be offered the captaincy over the summer, now that Charlie was gone.

“How did you know it was the Quidditch Pitch at Hogwarts and not somewhere else?” Dumbledore asked curiously.

Ron opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say. Did he mention the uniforms? Charlie was notoriously protective of his Quidditch uniform due to Fred and George’s antics and Ron had never seen it. Ron had never been to Hogwarts so he couldn’t say he recognized the landscape or the sight of Hagrid’s hut in the distance, especially as, in this life, he didn’t know Hagrid yet. Harry had introduced him to the half-giant. Would introduce him.

“I just… I just knew,” he said weakly.

Dumbledore nodded and looked at his parents. “I’ve met students, or soon-to-be students with gifts of the Sight and others before, but I daresay Ron’s is the strongest I have ever seen in an eleven-year-old.”

Ron gaped. “What?”

Dumbledore smiled at him. “I can see next year is going to be a very interesting experience for all of us professors, especially if your skills in your classes are as good as your skill at foretelling the future.”

“But… but we don’t know if it’s _really_ going to happen.”

“True. But that is true for all bearers of foreknowledge. What you see may come to pass or, because you know it may come to pass, the very actions you take in reaction to it might prevent it ever being realized.”

Ron felt tears well in his eyes unbidden. “So…” He choked on the word. “So I really _can_ change the future?”

He hadn’t meant to ask it. He hadn’t meant to give anything away, but in the back of his mind and haunting Hermione’s eyes had been the constant thought that their efforts might be for naught. Ron might come back and simply relive the horrors of the Wizarding World sliding back into war, the destruction of everything he knew and the loss of everyone he loved. He tried to ignore that fear, but like a Boggarts’ power proved, it was always there.

Dumbledore paused in standing up and allowed himself to sink back into the armchair. It wheezed alarmingly beneath him but held firm. “Mister Weasley,” he said, and Ron didn’t miss the more formal title, “if there is something you’ve seen that you think should be shared, I am willing to listen. Even if you think it should not be shared but fear keeping it to yourself…” He hesitated a moment but when Ron didn’t offer anything up - was, in fact, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from telling Dumbledore everything - he added, “Some believe that The Sight is a fluke of magic. Something of a backlash from powerful spells that ricochets across time and that it shouldn’t be used at all. However, others believe it is an attempt by Magic to keep balance, that certain people are given knowledge in order to help keep the world steady between the powers of Dark and Light. I have my own views on it that I will not share with you, because you must decide what you believe for yourself. But if there is something that you wish to tell me, or someone you need to speak with that I can find for you, I will do the very best I can to help you.”

Ron thought for a long moment, pondering the pros and cons of saying something. He still believed that he shouldn’t tell Dumbledore everything, that it would be too dangerous for the headmaster to know the truth, even if he did believe that Ron was having visions of the future and not that he had lived it. And what would he tell him, anyway? Every child of Britain’s magical world had been told the horrors of Voldemort and the war. Telling Dumbledore that Voldemort wasn’t dead, or even that he was back, would do nothing to make him believe Ron. He might even ignore him completely. After all, he clearly _knew_ Voldemort was back, had told Harry that the monster wasn’t dead, and so Ron would be giving him no information that he didn’t already have.

But could he say nothing?

Dumbledore sat patiently while he watched the youngest Weasley sort through his thoughts. He had not missed the fact that Ron would not meet his eyes and he suspected the boy’s magic recognized the Leglimency magic Dumbledore possessed. That was fine. He wouldn’t have risked scanning the boy’s mind, anyway. Dangerous things happened to witches and wizards who fooled around with time, and then included those who simply tried to look ahead. Being gifted the ability by Magic itself was one thing, but to try and steal that knowledge from another wizard or witch would be costly. Dumbledore had no desire to pay whatever price Magic would enact for his attempted theft. Ron’s mind might as well have been encased in the strongest walls Occlumency could build. He dared not look.

He didn’t think the boy even realized that he had started to cry, tears falling silently down his cheeks. When Molly tried to go and comfort him, Arthur had stopped her and shushed her, knowing that they dare not interrupt or Ron could close down completely. It was very possible he had forgotten anyone else was there but for him and Dumbledore.

Finally, the boy lifted his head, and though his eyes were still wet, they were filled with a resolve that brightened Dumbledore’s spirits. What a strong young man Molly and Arthur had raised.

Instead of speaking it aloud, Ron eyed his parents and Bill nervously. Clearly he had still been aware of their presence. Then he stood from the couch and came over to Dumbledore, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

He had expected something about Quidditch, or maybe fears about being Prefect or Head Boy, or being sorted into Slytherin (that was apparently the greatest fear of many would-be Gryffindors, and the opposite for the hopeful Slytherins). He expected the over-dramatized fears of a little boy living in a world that was much bigger than he realized.

Ronald Weasley whispered his revelation quietly in the headmaster's ear.

Albus Dumbledore sat staring blankly for a long moment after Ron had pulled away and returned to his seat on the couch.

Oh my.


	5. Thinking Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus Dumbledore visits the third floor corridor and contemplates what his plans were leading toward. Meanwhile, Arthur checks on his children and tucks them in for the night.

**Five**

**THINKING HARD**

* * *

It was with a very thoughtful expression that Albus accepted the pinch of Floo powder from Arthur and made his way back to his office. He arrived in a burst of green flames to find his desk still cluttered with paperwork and various proposals for changes to the school, none of which interested him at that moment. 

Instead, he opened the door to his office and headed down the staircase, the stone gargoyle moving out of the way and letting him pass. Though he tended to confine himself to his office in the days after the students had left for the year, Albus Dumbledore did something unusual today. He roamed the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, taking corridors and staircases on whims, letting the magic of the school carry him where it would.

He supposed he should not have been surprised to find himself standing in front of an innocuous door in a rather unimpressive corridor on the third floor. 

Not bothering to retrieve his wand, Albus flicked his fingers at the door. The lock that held it shut lifted and the door creaked open. 

The beautiful specimen of a cerberus that his gamekeeper had named Fluffy growled as it lifted its three heads, baring fangs at the intruder, saliva dripping from quivering lips. There was a burst of fire to Dumbledore’s left and then the vaulting notes of Phoenix Song lilted across the across like a pirouetting wind. Fluffy was struck by three massive, toothy yawns and slumped down into a puppyish puddle of over-sized paws and gangly furred legs. 

Fawkes swooped through the air and alighted on Albus’ shoulder. 

“Hello, old friend,” he greeted solemnly. 

Fawkes trilled an equally sorrowful note and Fluffy whined in response, burying its three heads against its large paws and snoring softly.

Albus waved his hand at the trap door the cerberus had been guarding. With a simple levitation spell, he lowered himself carefully through the small square of darkness. Fawkes left his shoulder, swooping beneath him and over the Devil’s Snare, the glow from his crimson and gold feathers offering a light in the shadowed corridor underbelly. 

Using the levitation spell and a careful burst of wind magic, Albus floating over the dangerous plant and landed on the stone floor well beyond its reach. The glow of Fawkes’ feathers kept it cowering in the corner. 

He made his way through the traps at a steady pace. Fawkes captured the flying key to Filius’ door and Albus played a quick game of chess. Minerva was quite good but he had been playing a lot longer than her. The troll was not due to be delivered until just before September and Severus had yet to finish making the myriad of potions that Albus had finally approved for his little logic puzzle. The man had wanted to make a series of extremely deadly poisons for a puzzle that would be accessible to any curious and talented students. Sometimes, Albus worried about that boy. 

He froze the flames that barred the final door with an overpowered spell and stepped through them, casting a warming charm on his legs as he entered the final room. 

The Mirror of Erised sat waiting against the far wall, the magical light from the walls making the glass glow white from a distance. 

Fawkes swooped around him, his wings carrying him to the mirror. Large eagle-like talons gripped the top of the mirror’s frame and the phoenix closed his wings gracefully, peering down at the glass. 

Albus sighed. 

Grief was a terrible thing. It could make you do horrible things in the name of good intentions. He wanted to destroy Voldemort for good, to make sure the monster that had once been a student here could harm no one else, but to do that, he needed to be sure the creature still existed. Not almost-sure. Not partially-sure. Not 99.99999 infinitum percent sure. 

Absolutely. Sure. 

The answer had seemed so simple. A little bait. An easy maze. A carefully laid out trap.

In a school full of children. 

Albus winced at his own foolishness. Since when did endangering the lives of children seem like a good idea? When had he slipped from the Leader of the Light into the shadow of it?

Was he regressing? No. He didn’t want harm to come to anyone save those that could not be stopped otherwise - Voldemort and his ilk. But he  _ was _ becoming careless. No. Negligent. 

A school full of children. Eleven-year-olds. 

When was it that such a risk seemed acceptable?

He worried that he couldn’t pinpoint an exact moment. 

“I need to rethink all of my plans,” he spoke quietly into the room. “I need to make sure they are for the good of the Wizarding World.”  _ Not just for the good of Albus Dumbledore and his old, broken heart.  _

He stepped up to the Mirror of Erised. A little girl stood there, forever young, smiling her kind, gentle smile at him. He touched his fingers to the mirror and let the tears slip down his cheeks. 

“Oh, Arianna. I am so sorry.” 

She smiled softly at him, a forgiving smile, and faded out of view. 

For a moment, the mirror gleamed the bright white of magic, and then a new image formed. It was blurry, made up of only vague shadows and shapes on a background of gleaming magic, but he could see the silhouettes of four people standing together. A family, perhaps? 

He wanted to see more, wanted to know what this was. His heart’s greatest desire, as told to him by the Mirror of Erised, was a mystery even to the great Albus Dumbledore. 

He wanted to know what it is his heart so desperately wished to be. 

He sat staring into the mirror for a very long time, Fawkes’ song crooning a farewell to a dream that had once been, and a welcome to something new. 

* * *

_ “I suspect you’re going to find that Ron is far more mature than his age belies. Or, if he isn’t yet, the more he faces off against these visions, the more likely he is to have the mind and heart of a man much older than he appears. This is to be expected. Seers are forced to face truths and possibilities others have the benefit of never knowing and this knowledge will force him to grow up before his time.” _

_ “Is there anything you can do to stop these visions?” _

_ “No, and even if there was, I wouldn’t. The Sight is a part of who Ronald is. Hiding that away would be to destroy a part of him, and there is no greater cruelty than to cause harm to a child, and particularly to cause harm to who he will become.” _

_ “It seems so unfair,” Molly whispered. Arthur squeezed her hand.  _

_ “Perhaps,” Dumbledore said, “but Magic itself has decreed that Ron have the gift, and so we can be certain there is a reason for it. I suspect your youngest may yet surprise us.” He glanced back at the staircase the boy had retreated up when it was clear their conversation was over. “He’s certainly surprised me.” _

Arthur and Molly sat at the table, nursing cups of tea.The headmaster had left some hours ago and their children had all gone to bed, but the two of them were unable to rest, their minds whirling too fast.

“It’s not fair,” Molly whispered. It wasn’t the first time she had said it. 

“But it’s the way it is,” Arthur said. It was a pathetic reassurance and did nothing to soothe his own heart. As his father, he had seen Ron cry before. It was loud, explosive, tearing apart any ounce of peace within his space as he cried with pain or fear or anger. But Arthur Weasley had never seen his son cry silent tears and it scared him. He was already different from the boy he had known just a day before. 

_ Can a single vision really do so much to change a person? _

And yet, it hadn’t been a single vision, had it? Ron had told them of the vision of himself as the Gryffindor Keeper, but what he had told to Albus, what had made him cry so silently, had not been a dream of Quidditch. What he had whispered in the headmaster’s ear had been something that terrified the man Arthur respected above all others. He had seen it in the lack of a twinkle in the headmaster’s eyes. Ron had seen something life-altering. 

Arthur wanted to know what it was so he could protect his son from it, and yet he dared not ask if doing so would cause him so much pain. Ron had returned to the couch once he’d spoken to Albus, but he’d curled up into himself, drawing his knees to his chest and hiding his face in them. That was something Bill used to do as a child when his nerves would overcome him and he needed to hide away from people and the world, but Ron had never been someone who needed to hide himself away. He had always leapt into the thick of things, an active, social boy. 

So much had changed and in a single day. 

Pushing his chair back from the table, he stood.

“Arthur?”

“I’m just going to check on the boys, Mollywobbles. Finish your tea and come up to bed.” 

Molly smiled softly at him. “Of course, dear.” 

Arthur turned and headed up the staircase, pausing on the landing to knock on his youngest’s door and peer in when he heard no answer. Ginny was stretched out on her bed like a tiger sunning itself, her blankets tossed to the floor, red hair a crimson halo across her sheets. 

With a smile and a shake of his head, Arthur stepped into the room, lighting a dim lumos on his wand. He had to search for a moment before he found Ginny’s pillow wedged between her mattress and the wall. He gently lifted her head and tucked it beneath her, then covered her up with the blanket. She mumbled something under her breath and sighed, before settling. Arthur bent down and kissed her forehead softly. “Sleep well, gingersnap.” 

He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. 

He stopped briefly in Fred and George’s room, raising an eyebrow at their rapidly shoving items out of sight beneath their blankets and giving him what passed for innocent smiles from the two of them. He pointed at them one at a time. “George. Fred.”

“Aw,” they whined together. “How do you always know?” 

He smiled. “Bed. Both of you.” 

“Night, Dad.”

Percy was still awake (no surprise there), sitting at his desk with a roll of parchment and a busy quill, working by the light of a single candle. 

“Percy,” he said, sighing. Studiousness was all well and good, but that boy was going to burn himself out. 

“I’m almost done, Dad.” Percy turned to look at him. “I promise.” 

“One more hour,” Arthur warned, flicking his wand at the candle. 

Percy sighed in disappointment. “Yes, Dad.” 

Charlie was sprawled in bed, a book open in front of him, his wand’s tip glowing with a low-powered lumos. His head was resting on the pages of his book and a Norwegian Ridgeback was frantically trying to avoid the steadily growing pool of drool soaking its page. 

Arthur carefully rescued the book and cast a cleaning spell on it, marking the page and placing it on his son’s nightstand. He pulled the wand from his son’s lax grip, the lumos spell winking out at the lack of contact, and placed it on top of the book. Drawing the covered over Charlie, he quietly left the room. 

He peeked in on Bill briefly. The boy was sitting against his headboard in the dark, but his eyes glinted as he lifted them to meet his father’s. Arthur winced at the sight, then forced himself to step into the room. 

Bill flicked his wand, lighting the lanterns that rested against the walls of his room. “Sorry, Dad.” 

“It’s all right. I’m just not used to it, I suppose.” 

“It makes things far easier, if that’s any consolation.” 

“I’m sure it does, but the reflecting in the dark is a bit unnerving.” He smiled. “For whatever you come across in your tombs, too, I’m sure.” 

Bill returned the smile but it slipped quickly from his face. Arthur walked over to sit on the edge of the bed. “You’re worried about Ron.” 

“Who isn’t? Even the twins have been tamer than usual, and that’s a frightening thing to witness.” 

Arthur chuckled. “I suspect that will change shortly if what I saw them hiding under their blankets is anything to go by.” 

Bill huffed a laugh. “Perhaps I should get out of here sooner than Friday, then.”  

Arthur smiled in amusement at his eldest. He was so proud of him. Bill had left Hogwarts and gone off to further his education, finding a job doing something he loved. Now he traveled the world, immersing himself in other cultures, learning magics Arthur had never heard of and bringing the mysteries of the world to both magicals and muggles alike. 

For Arthur and Molly, it was never about the money and he was glad he’d passed that onto his son. Bill did make a fair galleon at his job, but the best part was that he loved it. 

“Have you learned a lot about Seers at work?” Arthur asked, curious about what Bill had mentioned during their discussion with Albus. 

Bill shook his head. “You hear tales and such, cultural Aesop’s, but The Sight isn’t a common skill among any culture, and less so now. The magic is washing out of generations. I’m honestly surprised it’s come back in our family.”

“So am I.” 

“Do you think he’ll be okay, Dad?” Bill looked up at him, concern burning in his eyes.

Arthur clapped his eldest on the shoulder. “Ron is a strong boy, and he has a strong family. What he sees he will have to deal with as it comes, but he’ll have you and your brothers to help him carry that load, however heavy it is.” 

Bill nodded his head, looking thoughtful. When he didn’t say anything else, Arthur stood up and left him to his thoughts, closing the door behind him. He made his way up to Ron’s room, shaking his head at the bright orange walls. Who needed a lumos spell when your son was a Chudley Cannon’s fan?

Ron was asleep, sprawled on his back, his mouth wide open as he snored. Arthur couldn’t help his chuckle. He had been concerned, thinking that he had blinked and somehow missed out on his son’s childhood. Yet here Ron was, still the same as he had been when Arthur checked on him the night before. Snoring loud enough to keep the ghoul awake. 

Arthur stepped over to the bed and ran a hand through Ron’s thick red hair. 

“Whatever you’re dealing with now, Ron, I hope you know you can always count on us to be there with you. Weasleys stand together.” 

He stood for a long moment watching his son, before slipping out and closing the door behind him. He made his way to his own bedroom, finding Molly waiting on him, reading by the light of the lantern on her bedside table. 

“Everyone tucked in?” she asked, putting the book aside. 

“For the most part.” He decided not to mention the prank that Fred and George were no doubt planning. A few laughs would do them all good. 

Molly sighed. “I suspect Fred and George have been far too quiet these past few days. No doubt they’ll have something planned for us soon.” 

Arthur smiled to himself. “Perhaps.” 

Molly looked at him, saw his smile, and rolled her eyes. “Go to bed, Arthur.” 

“Yes, dear.” 


	6. Cooking Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron thinks about what he needs to do to get started on his plans, what he needs to wait to accomplish, and whether the bacon is done.

**Six**

**COOKING PLANS**

* * *

 

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Forbidden Forest, a circle around him that twitched and roiled in the dark, crawling across the ground in continuous movement. Ron’s lips pulled back and he let out a whine at the sight of what had to be hundreds of spiders crawling over one another in a circle around his form. How close was he to the acromantula nest?

“You carry Mars with you in your travels.”

The centaur seemed even taller from where he sat on the ground. His hooves were shiny, blending in with the dark of the hair at the base of his legs, but it lightened as it rose until, as his chest, the centaur’s coat glimmered like spun gold, a tail of the sun’s gleaming rays swishing at his back. His well-muscled chest and arms made Ron feel incredibly inadequate in his tiny eleven-year-old body. Not that he would have felt much better as a tiny twenty-year-old. 

Gleaming golden hair fell around the centaur’s shoulders in a mane more like a lion than a horse, and he peered at Ron with eyes so dark they might have been the black of the night sky. 

“It is a heavy burden,” the centaur said. His voice was deep, rumbling, and incongruent with the youthful face he bore, his cheeks and chin dusted with fine golden hairs. 

“Who are you, sir?” Ron asked, wondering if he was a member of Firenze’s herd. 

The centaur smiled at him. “I am called Huwig.” 

There was a glint in his black eyes that made Ron feel nervous and he stood up from his cross-legged position. “What are you doing here, Huwig?”

“I am observing an element that has been altered.” Huwig studied him like a bug he was planning on pinning to a board. “Your actions have already begun to alter the timeline, Seer. I hope you are prepared for the consequences.” 

Ron raised his eyebrows. “It can’t possibly be worse than what it was before I came back?”

Huwig studied him for a long moment. “Can it not?” He turned and began to walk away, his heavy legs making not a sound as he stepped through the forest. “Farewell, Seer from the future. We will see each other again.” 

Ron stared after the centaur, even after he had slipped out of sight. He glanced down at his feet but the spiders had gone, which he appreciated more than he could express. He looked around him and, unable to see anything through the trees, headed in a random direction, hoping it would lead him out of the forest and not deeper still. 

It seemed he had only walked for a few seconds when the forest thinned and he could see Hogwarts standing strong above him. Standing strong even against the dragons that tore through the sky, casting fire down at the dark stone, and the giants with their massive clubs hammering away at the entrance doors. 

“No! I’m meant to keep this from happening!”

“Mars is bright tonight, Ronald Weasley.” He spun to see Firenze standing behind him, the centaur’s mouth set in a stern line. “Brighter still than it was before you spoke to Dumbledore.” 

“No!”

Ron sat up in bed, a sound humming on the edge of his hearing, like a chime or a whistle that faded away. He frowned, staring into the darkness of his room, and fumbled for his wand. It took him a few minutes to stop panicking when he realized he couldn’t find it. He hadn’t received it yet. 

In fact, he wouldn’t be getting his own wand. He’d be given Charlie’s old one while his brother bought a new wand with congratulatory money from his parents for graduating Hogwarts without burning the place down. A hard thing to do for a man obsessed with all things fire-breathing and scaley. 

When was it Charlie was offered the job in Romania? It wasn’t long after he graduated, Ron thought. Only a few weeks, in fact. One of his friends a few years above him recommended him for the job. He’d pack up and leave soon and it would be a while until Ron got to see him again. 

But he’d be alive. Alive and doing something he loved, rather than dead at the hands of that bastard Fenrir Greyback. Ron’s jaw tightened painfully just thinking about the psychotic werewolf as he ran in a bloodfury through Hogwarts, turning or killing everyone he came across. 

He thought of Neville Longbottom, standing firm against the werewolf to protect Hannah Abbott and Amelia Bones, both of them injured fighting Death Eaters. Neville hadn’t been killed. Greyback had enjoyed himself turning Ron’s friend, scarring his face so horribly that Neville had hidden himself away from society after the war, making herbological breakthroughs that saved countless lives, but never showing his face to anyone again. 

He’d died there in that great big mansion his grandmother had left him, tearing himself apart one Full Moon and bleeding out before help could arrive the next morning. No one was ever sure what had caused that level of ferocity. Ron just hoped it hadn’t been intentional.

Greyback had ruined so many people’s lives. He was the one that turned Remus Lupin, a friend of Harry’s parents. A friend of Ron. 

_ It’s more than just Voldemort, _ he thought.  _ He’s not the only problem.  _

Was that what his dreams were trying to tell him - that killing off Voldemort, no matter how soon or late they did it, wouldn’t solve the problem? There was something wrong with the Wizarding World itself. Something that needed to be fixed if he ever hoped for this time to be better than the last. Otherwise, the details might change, but in the end, it would be the same. Hopeless. Hateful. 

But what? What all needed changed? What  _ could _ be changed?

He lay in bed thinking through the rest of his night, only rousing from his thoughts when the sun shone through his bedroom window. He sighed as he rose and took himself to the bathroom, relieving himself and taking a quick shower before it was occupied by the rest of the family. 

He made his way downstairs, thoughts still churning. There was so much he wanted to do, but he didn’t know how to go about it or where to even start. He knew spells he wanted to try to see if his magic was the same as he remembered, but he didn’t have his wand yet and wouldn’t until just before September. He wanted to go to Ollivander’s now and demand the replacement he had received -  _ his _ wand - when Charlie’s broke in his second year, but he didn’t have the funds to pay for a wand. He had a couple knuts and sickles up in his room, but not enough to buy more than a couple sweets or a few Dungbombs. And he had no way of changing that. It wasn’t like an eleven-year-old could go out and get a job. 

He made his way to the kitchen and grabbed some eggs from the cold cupboard, cracking them into a bowl and finding some mushrooms and green peppers in the baskets above the sink. He cleaned and diced them as he thought. 

What did he need to do?

He needed to stop Voldemort. 

Was that possible at this time. 

Not a bit. 

So then, what did he need to do to get to that point?

He needed to meet Harry. 

Was that possible at this time?

No.

_ Although _ , he thought,  _ I might be able to convince Mum to take us to Diagon Alley the same day that Harry goes. It was his birthday, right? _

There. He could try that when July came around. 

In the meantime, what else did he need to do?

Ron grabbed a large skillet and put it on the stove, lighting the wood beneath the burners to start it heating. He whisked the eggs into a liquid. 

He needed to set himself up as a student who paid attention to his studies. He wasn’t going to be like he was last time, lazy and uncaring. 

Was that possible at this time?

He thought about it as it poured the diced peppers and mushrooms into the egg mixture. 

He had almost three months until he started Hogwarts, hopefully around two until he got his schoolbooks, but did that prevent him from showing good habits?

He poured the egg mixture into the pan and went to fetch a loaf of bread. 

He wasn’t sure about Charlie, but Bill was a bit like Hermione in that he kept every book he had ever received for Hogwarts. Charlie had actually used Bill’s set of first year books when he started, but the editions had changed by the time Percy went to school and his parents were forced to buy new books, even though the two editions weren’t that different. 

If Bill would let him borrow some of his books, even just the ones for Transfiguration or Charms, Ron could start “studying.” Actually, even knowing all he did, reviewing wouldn’t be a bad idea. He hadn’t needed to turn a matchstick into a needle since first year. 

He began to cut slices of bread, counting them out as he did, and fetched a cookie sheet to lay them on so he could toast them in the oven. He stirred the eggs in the skillet and cleaned up his mess before digging sausages and bacon from the icebox. He found another pan to heat them in. 

So lost in his thoughts, he never heard his mother come down the stairs until her confused call of “Ron?”

He turned quickly, startled, holding a greasy fork in his hand that he had been using to flip the bacon. “Morning, Mum.” 

She gave him a bemused smile as she walked over to him, smoothing his hair. “You’re making breakfast?”

He shrugged, ducking his head as he blushed. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He missed his mother’s worried look, but it smoothed out as she studied the feast her youngest son was preparing for them. “This was very thoughtful of you, Ron. Thank you.” 

He blushed harder. 

It was a silly thing. Harry had been a fantastic cook. The reasons for that weren’t ideal (bloody Dursleys), but his cooking skills were nothing to shake a wand at. For a few years after the war, Ron, Hermione, and Harry had lived together in a two bedroom apartment above a muggle bookstore (Hermione’s personal paradise). Harry got sick of Ron eating everything in sight and one day decided that he was going to learn to cook or he was going to starve. 

Ron learned rather quickly. 

He was by no means good at it to start, and there had been a few mornings where they are overcooked eggs and burnt bacon, but the three of them began to take turns cooking breakfast, and the more Ron did it, the better he got. Eventually, he didn’t have to think too hard about it and it became less a chore and more a pleasure. His mind could wander while he worked and, after he was finished, he got to eat his work. 

Getting up before everyone else with too many thoughts on his mind, cooking breakfast just seemed normal. It would be odd, he realized, sitting down at the table with Harry and Hermione there to enjoy it with him. 

His mum pulled the fork from his grasp and went to turn the sausages. “Why don’t you get some juice for the table, Ron.”

Pleased that he wasn’t being kicked from his sanctuary, Ron went outside to fetch some apples. He never could get the spell right to make fresh juice. Once he had his wand, he’d have to remember to have his mum teach it to him.

* * *

 

Breakfast was a loud affair, as was usual in the Burrow. There had been some shocked disbelief (and feigned terror, in the twins’ case) when his mum mentioned that it was Ron who cooked breakfast, but it had been enjoyable nonetheless. Even if he did waste a sausage throwing it at George. 

His mum shooed him out of the kitchen when he went to clean up, as was his normal chore, saying that since he cooked, she would clean up. He wandered around for a moment, feeling weirdly guilty for not doing dishes, before he caught sight of Bill heading out to the broom shed. Ron raced outside after him. 

“Hey, Bill!” His eldest brother turned, walking backward, as Ron raced up and slowed down to walk beside him. “What’re you doing?”

“Figured I’d go for a fly. Wanna join me?”

“Okay.”

The two fetched their brooms and took to the sky. Bill had never bothered with Quidditch in school. He had taken more enjoyment from his studies, but he still had a broom and he would fly casually when he was bored. He didn’t tear through the air the way that Charlie did unless they were playing a game. Rather, he let his broom carry him lazily across the sky as he seemed to sort through his thoughts. 

“How are you doing, Ron?”

“Okay, I guess.” Ron was straddling his broom carefully, his hands in his lap rather than on the shaft, steering it cautiously with his knees. “Why?”

“You just seem to be taking this whole Seer thing really well. I wonder if that’s honestly how you feel about it.”

Ron thought for a long moment as he pressed his knee against the broom’s shaft. It turned in a lazy circle to the right. “I mean, it’s  _ weird _ , but it doesn’t seem wrong.” How did someone explain that visions didn’t seem out of place without revealing the “visions” were actually memories from a future he had sent himself back to change? “It’s… I don’t know. Right.”

That sounded completely stupid. 

“I guess that makes sense.”

_ What. _

“Your magic recognizes this new ability as a part of you. It doesn’t seem wrong because it’s who you are.” He studied his younger brother, thinking. “I’m worried about you, though.”

Ron looked at Bill as his continuous circling carried him past. “Worried about me? Why?”

“The things you see won’t all be good. The world isn’t a good place. It can be sometimes, but it can also be dark and cruel.”

“I know,” Ron said, before he could even think about it. He swallowed at Bill’s worried look. 

“You’re only eleven.”

Ron shrugged, shifting his legs so he started turning to the left. “Some of the things were bad,” he admitted. He thought of Fred, dead in the Great Hall after the Battle of Hogwarts. “And some were horrible. Or terrifying.” Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest. A Basilisk under the school. A werewolf transforming while they were chained together. Harry out-flying a Hungarian Horntail on a  _ very flammable broom _ . “Some I hope never happen. I hope they’re just nightmares.”

He stared off into the blueness of the sky, thinking. “But some… some I hope do happen.” Meeting Harry Potter on the train platform and then meeting  _ Harry _ on the train. Becoming friends with the smartest witch of her age. Brewing Polyjuice Potion in an abandoned girl’s bathroom and proving to himself that he  _ could _ brew potions. Watching as Harry found a piece of the family he thought he’d lost forever. Playing as Keeper for the Gryffindor quidditch team. Learning how to do spells the Defense Against the Dark Arts professors had never been smart enough to teach them. Standing with his friends against the might of a Death Eater ambush. 

Kissing his girlfriend for the first time. 

Proposing to the only woman he would ever love. 

Marrying the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. 

He realized he was blushing and ducked his head, though Bill had obviously seen. He studied Ron for a long moment.

“Like what?” he demanded, his voice twisted by a teasing chuckle. 

Ron stuck his tongue out at his brother. “I’ll tell you if you let me borrow your books from first year.”

“Bribery, Ron? How very unlike you.” He shrugged. “But fine. You can borrow them.”

Ron grinned and straightened, gripping the shaft of his broom with both hands. “I know who you’re going to marry.” Then before Bill could say anything in response, he shoved the nose of his room toward the ground and swept downward in a steep dive, whooping as he went. 

* * *

Being grounded he reckless self-endangerment wasn’t so bad in the wake of Fred and George’s astonishment. It had been a foolish move, to do such a steep dive from so high up, but he couldn’t resist teasing Bill about Fleur. He hoped he would get to introduce them a little earlier this time. Once he got past her defensive snottiness, she was actually a very nice person. She was just used to dealing with people who judged her for being half-veela. 

Bill had kept his promise. After being lectured at high volume by his mother, Ron retreated to the sitting room, where Bill delivered a large stack of books for every class he had taken in first year, and a few extra texts he had thought would be useful. 

“Getting a head start, Ron?”

“Seems like a good idea,” Ron admitted. “Besides, I’m grounded anyway. Might as well read.”

And so he read. He started with Transfiguration because, let’s face it, McGonagall is a  _ scary lady _ . And maybe he was hoping he would transform his matchstick into a needle the first time, too. After that, Charms, because of that stupid feather. Never mind that he had later lifted a troll’s club without a problem. There was something to be said about terror and adrenaline. 

Potions was a must and anyone who had Snape as a professor didn’t need to ask why. 

And on it went. 

The summer continued in much the same way. Ron spent his days doing chores, tossing gnomes, and reading books. Bill left to go on his mission in Egypt. Charlie was offered a job on the dragon preserve in Romania. The twins tried to blow up the house a few times and, at one point, did succeed in setting their beds on fire. They also ended up grounded, not that it stopped them. 

Mid-July, Ron received a package in the mail from Bill containing two more books and a small sack. He had been confused until he read the letter that came with them. The two books were complete volumes of the Hogwarts texts; one containing every text for Bill’s second year (just in time, too, since Ron was on the last few pages of his first year work), plus a few extra books he found interesting or useful, the other containing all of the texts required for Ron’s first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as provided to Bill by Minerva McGonagall. 

The sack was a mokeskin pouch, tiny and innocuous on the outside, massive on the inside. Hermione had charmed her own bigger-on-the-inside bag in their fifth year. This one had been bought in Egypt, Bill explained in his letter, with a few surprises he would let Ron figure out on his own, though he’d have to wait until he was at Hogwarts and could do magic to play around with it.

It would be completely worth it.

And so the summer continued, Ron devoured Bill’s second year book, until July 30th arrived. 

Harry Potter would be going to Diagon Alley on the 31st, his birthday. 

Ron had every intention of meeting him. 


	7. Speaking Diagonally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron tries to find Harry in Diagon Alley. Instead, he makes a deal with the twins, learns something about Percy, and has a conversation with a bookworm.

**Seven**

**SPEAKING DIAGONALLY**

* * *

 

He had worried he wouldn’t be able to fake the awe he had felt the first time he entered Diagon Alley. When the twins had come here to get their books before school, he had been nine and too young in his mother’s eyes to be paraded around a busy shopping center. Poor Bill had been stuck with both him and eight-year-old Ginny, and Ron hadn’t come to Diagon Alley until he came carrying his Hogwarts letter, proof that he was a wizard.

He’d succeeded in convincing his mum to bring them a month early, just a few days after he received his invitation to the premier magical school in Britain. And so it was July 31st, Harry Potter’s birthday, and he was in Diagon Alley. 

He didn’t know where to look. His practicing awe and interest and utter glee had been a waste of time he could have spent enjoying his broomstick (he had finally been ungrounded and allowed to fly again). His eyes swept the Alley continuously. He  _ was _ looking for a head of black hair and round glasses in an awed face, or perhaps seeking out Hagrid’s large form would be easier, but he kept getting distracted by all that he could see. The open shops. The carefree people.

Diagon Alley had been blown off the map in their sixth year during his previous life. Voldemort and his Death Eaters had arrived not long before September 1st, just in time for the alley to be filled with terrified students and would-be first years. 

With the anti-apparition and anti-portkey spells up, as well as their sheer forces, very few people made it out of the Alley alive. The Death Eaters had taken extreme pleasure in tearing the place to pieces after they had killed everyone that didn’t manage to escape. The Dark Mark had hung over the destruction for a week before it finally faded away, along with most people’s hope for an end to the war. 

“All right there, Ron?” George asked, sidling up alongside his brother. 

“Looking a bit peaky, brother mine,” Fred side, sliding up on his other side. 

“Don’t suppose you’ve been seeing things.”

“Good things, mind. Would-be, could-be, money-making things.” 

Their arrival had shaken Ron from his memories and he was grateful for it. He didn’t even try to shake off the arms that had wrapped around his shoulders so the two could huddle around his face. 

“Maybe I have,” Ron said, and he added just enough Malfoy-esque haughtiness into the tone to make his brothers’ eyebrows shoot up on their foreheads. “But you should know, Gred, Forge, that nothing worth anything is free.” He smirked at them. “Not even things that might not happen.” 

“Ooooh,” Fred said, dragging it out. “I’m sorely tempted to be irritated, dear brother, but I find I am intrigued.” 

“Very intrigued, indeed,”George said. “It seems we raised our little brother well, after all. That or he’s been holding out on us.” 

Ron only smirked at them, enjoying their discomfiture. 

Fred and George shared a look, before Fred declared, “Right! Well, I want to know.” 

“And so do I. So we’re in agreement.” 

They both looked expectantly at Ron. “I haven’t agreed to anything.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And you haven’t said what’s in it for me.” 

“Ha!” George cried. 

“Immunity, my dear Ronniekins,” Fred said in his sly, salesman voice. “How’d you like to never have to worry about being the target of our Wicked Wizarding Wiles again?”

“As if your Weasley Wizarding Wheezes worry me in the least.” Ron thought about tossing his head in self-righteousness, that “I know what I’m talking about and you’re an idiot” snub and turn that Hermione was so good at, but he thought it might make him look like a girl. He settled on leaning back against the wall of Fortescue’s shop, glad that their mother had decided to treat them all to ice cream. 

“Weasley Wizarding Wheezes,” Fred mused, testing the name. 

“I like it!” George declared. “Not as catchy as anonymous as The Marauders, of course, but it does have a nice ring to it.” 

“That’d be the first part of it, I think, Gred.” 

“True enough, Forge.” 

They both turned to their little brother. “So, not worried about our pranks.” 

“And not worried about being victim of said pranks.” 

“And you’ve spent all summer reading, so you’re not worried about grades.” 

“And we’ve seen your…  _ skill _ at Quidditch.” 

Ron aimed a punch at him at the way he said skill, but Fred just laughed and dodged aside. 

“So, what it is our little Ronniekins  _ is _ worried about?”

“How can we tempt you to be our far-seeing eyes?”

Ron hadn’t thought about this possibility. He didn’t know why. Fred and George were notorious for using whatever means they could get their hands on to further themselves. They practiced their untried pranks on first years, and he could probably quote a few of Hermione’s lectures on that by heart, thank you very much. Clearly they thought his “Sight” could assist them, and maybe it could, except with him changing things, nothing would happen exactly the same. 

But there  _ were _ some things he needed. Not yet for the most of them, but in the future, having some help that wouldn’t ask questions could be useful. Especially help like Fred and George, who knew how to be discreet.

“All right,” he said, straightening. “There are a few things I could use some help with, but I can’t exactly make these “visions” come whenever I want. They just pop in.” He shrugged. “And there’s no guarantee that they  _ will  _ happen.” 

“Hey, we’ve heard about Trelawney’s class. Apparently she predicts a death every year and so far, none have happened for something like fifty years.”

“Which is a good thing,” George put in. 

“A very good thing, but obviously it doesn’t always happen, what you see.”

“That or Trelawney needs her third eye checked.”

Ron stifled a snort of laughter, turning it into a not-very-convincing sneeze. He cleared his throat, ignoring the twins’ knowing grins. He shouldn’t know who Trelawney is, even with The Sight.

“So, what is it we can get you, Ronniekins?” George asked sweetly, clapping his hands together. 

“Mind you, it’s a favor then a vision, and not another favor until you pay up your part.” Fred thought a moment. “Unless it’s an emergency.”

George nodded in agreement.

“Fair enough,” Ron said. He was fingering the wand in his pocket, his mind rolling the possibility around in his head of borrowing some Galleons off Fred and George (he knew they saved up quite a bit large joke product searches at the beginning of every year) to get himself a wand that suited him, but he didn’t think he could get it past his mum, and he wasn’t sure the twins would go for it, either. After all, they hadn’t had any proof yet.

He smiled to himself. Of course, he could change that.

“How about I give you guys a little glimpse of the future now,” he said, “and you let me have one favor now and then I have another already paid for.” 

Fred raised his eyebrows at his youngest brother, then looked over at George. “What do you think, Forge? Should we let little Ronnie pay a favor ahead?”

“Technically, he’s really only paying for whatever favor he wants now,” George said, but then shrugged. “But he  _ is _ our little brother and we do love him, now that he’s older and out of diapers.” 

“I have been out of diapers for nine years!” Ron said, feeling his face burn scarlet.

“Sure thing, Ronnie.” Fred patted his head consoling while stage-whispering to George, “He still have delusions of big boy pants.” 

Ron tried to think of something really embarrassing to hit them with, past or future, but the thing with Fred and George was that they laughed at everything. Even the embarrassing stuff. His disappointment must have shown on his face, because they chuckled at him. 

“All right, Ron, you have a deal,” Fred said, grinning at him. “One glimpse of the future now and a favor from us, and then you have another on back order.” 

Ron nodded. “Okay, then.” He squared his shoulders. “I’m going to sit with Harry Potter on the Hogwarts Express. We’re going to be best mates.”

Honestly, he really should have expected the laughter. 

* * *

Since Ron already had his schoolbooks, courtesy of Bill, he was allowed to go look around the Alley on the condition that he stayed with his older brother. Percy, who had  _ also _ been gifted his school texts by Bill (something Ron didn’t learn until he mentioned it as they were leaving Gringotts), was mostly indifferent to having his little brother tag along as he walked through Diagon Alley. For his part, Ron wasn’t sure how to act around the older boy. 

He had been determined (still way determined) to keep his family from being torn apart by the Ministry’s manipulations and Percy’s eagerness, but one the other hand, he was still angry at his brother for abandoning them. Except that it hadn’t happened in this timeline. If he was lucky and very watchful, it would hopefully never happen. Despite his desire to keep Percy a part of their clan, though, he had no idea  _ how _ . He had never been close to Percy. Born the middle child of their family, his closest siblings in age were Fred and George, and the twins were so different from the most studious of the Weasley children that it was no surprise Percy spent most of his time alone in his room. 

Ron was still running through possible ways to start a conversation when Percy fixed the problem for him. “I’m pleased to see you’re taking your studies seriously, Ron,” the older boy said, pride in his voice. “It’s good to look at Hogwarts for what it is - a prime education for a mind ready to grow.”

Sometimes, Ron wished Percy would talk more like a normal person and less like Hermione. 

“I really like my books,” he said, then wanted to bang his head against a brick wall.  _ I really like my books? Idiot!  _ “But I’m nervous about Transfiguration,” he added, deciding that, in this case, truth was probably best so long as he didn’t give away anything. “Bill said McGonagall is really tough.” 

“She is,” Percy admitted, “but also fair. If you’re confused, you can ask questions and she’ll try to explain it to you in a different way. It’s not the same for the Potions professor, Professor Snape. He doesn’t like it very much when people ask questions. Especially Gryffindors.”

_ Or answer them,  _ Ron thought, thinking of Hermione with her hand in the air. Oh. He should probably find a way to keep her from getting on Snape’s bad side from the start. Being friends with Harry Potter would do that nicely for them. 

“I was reading up about potions and I can’t wait to try some of them. The Polyjuice Potion looks really useful.” 

“Where did you read about the Polyjuice Potion?” Percy asked, frowned. 

Ron froze.  _ Oh crap. _

“Oh wait, Bill sent you some extra books, didn’t he?” Percy smiled. “Of course. You need to be careful. If Professor Snape learned you had a book about the polyjuice, he would confiscate it immediately. It can be a very dangerous potion.” He tilted his head to the side, thinking. “You’re probably too young to do the spell yourself, but when we get to school, let me see the books you have and I’ll spell them so no one can read them over your shoulder. It should hide the covers, too.” 

Ron stared at his older brother. “But… isn’t that against the rules?” It sounded a lot like a spell he probably would have appreciated knowing in his fifth year, when Dean brought in some muggle magazines that he hid under his mattress. 

Percy flushed slightly, but he cleared his throat. “It’s for knowledge, Ron. All things are fair in the pursuit of knowledge.” 

“I thought all things were fair in love and war?” he asked, grinning. 

“Yes,” Percy said, sniffing. “Love, war, and books.” 

* * *

As it happened, Ron never did see Harry, or Hagrid. He couldn’t be too disappointed, however, when he and Percy stepped through the door to Flourish and Blotts and nearly ran into a girl with the bushiest hair he had ever seen. 

Very, very familiar bushy hair. 

He almost cried out her name, but managed to clamp his mouth shut just in time to avoid doing something so foolish. The look on his face must have been particularly ludicrous, however, since Hermione gave him a funny look. “Are you okay?”

“Um.” He blinked. “Yes! Sorry I almost ran you over.”

She smiled uneasily at him. “My fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” 

He eyed the stack of books she was balancing in her arms. “I can’t imagine why.” 

She grinned at them, then laughed a little. “Yes, I do enjoy reading.” 

“Me too,” Ron said. Of course, he preferred Quidditch, but he had to admit that some of the books Bill had sent him were pretty interesting. Plus his brother had a habit of writing notes in the margins and they were always interesting. The one he could understand, anyway. 

“What’s your favorite subject?” she asked. 

“I don’t know, yet. I mean…” He almost said Ancient Runes, just to try and impress her, but knowing Hermione, she had already read four books on the subject and if she asked him any questions, he would reveal himself as both an idiot  _ and _ a liar. “I guess Charms looks really interesting. I can’t wait to learn to levitate things.” He grinned at her. “I even know the incantation for the levitation spell already!” And how could he forget it?

“Wingardium Leviosa!” they both said at the same time. Hermione burst into giggles and Ron could help but laugh himself. He felt… strangely young while talking her, despite being able to remember a twenty-something version of her. He wondered why that was. Perhaps he just remembered how often they spent time together, him, Hermione, and Harry, and it was just easy to slide back into that role. 

It would certainly make blending in at Hogwarts easier than he expected. 

“Hermione!”

“Oh!” She did a little nervous skip, making her hair bounce. “I have to go. Um… nice to meet you.” 

“Nice to meet you, too.”

She bustled past him and out the door, and he was just turning back around to go meet up with Percy, who was reading the bindings on a nearby shelf, when she stuck her head back inside the shop. 

“Sorry! I didn’t get your name.”

“Ron,” he said quickly, his smile aching. “Ron Weasley.” 

“I’m Hermione Granger,” she said, in that bossy tone he’d missed so much. “I’ll see you on the Hogwarts Express.” 

“I’ll save you a seat,” he said, as she moved to leave. 

The smile she gave him was well worth not catching sight of his best friend. After all, he’d gotten to meet his future wife. The train ride was going to be amazing. 


	8. Traveling Expressly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron finally gets on the Hogwarts Express and meets his best friend for the second first time.

**Eight**

**TRAVELING EXPRESSLY**

* * *

The rest of the summer went by too slowly and too quickly at once. Ron couldn’t wait to meet his best friend again, and to spend time with both him and Hermione, but at the same instant, he knew they would be thrown into the midst of danger as soon as the year started. Around the same time that Dumbledore warned against dying a horrible death. 

He didn’t know what he was going to do about the third floor corridor, much less the more dangerous and irritating Quirrell. The way that Dumbledore acted earlier in the summer, he was hoping he might be able to convince the headmaster that Quirrell was evil, if not a vessel for Voldemort. He wasn't sure he would be able to, though. He was only eleven. 

He spent the rest of the summer alternating between excitement about going back to Hogwarts and disappointment about leaving his free time behind. Regardless of his thoughts on it, the days continued to move forward until the morning of September 1st finally arrived. 

It was chaotic in the way only the Weasley household could be. Despite his attempts to be prepared, he still found himself throwing things in his trunk while his mum shouted up the stairs. He was nearly run over by Fred and George as he bolted down the stairs, his trunk thudding down each step. Fred and George grabbed his trunk between them and took it down to the car. Their mum was already unhappy about having to drive the Ford Anglia to London. There was no need to test her temper further. 

Ron had completely forgotten about the car and it was a shock to see it docile and lacking scratches or holes in the windows. He only took a moment to study it, however, as his mother shrieked at him to hurry up. He threw himself into the backseat and they were off.

Despite all his hopes to get to King’s Cross early, they still arrived with just ten minutes to spare. Some things were consistent, it seemed, across time and space. What had Hermione called that? A fixed point. 

He would never have guessed his family’s tardy habits would be something the universe hinged on happening, of all things. 

It was so familiar, rushing through King’s Cross in a line of Weasleys, his mum asking them how they get on the platform like she did every year. Ron loved her dearly, but it was a reminder of how very over-protective she could be. His mother was a very caring woman, but her habit of treating her children as infants regardless of their age could be suffocating. 

Still, he loved her, and he couldn't resist shouting “Nine and three quarters!” alongside Ginny when their mum asked what the platform number was. He didn’t know what she would do if not for the Notice Me Not charm that kept the muggles from overhearing. Thank goodness it was strictly attuned to those without magic, too, or Harry would never have found them that first time. 

Speaking of Harry. 

“Um, excuse me.” 

Merlin, he was a timid thing. They’d have to fix that. Then again, Ron didn’t remember Harry being timid for long. Granted, he was never particularly assertive (except for fifth year, when teenage hormones mixed with guilt turned him into an unholy terror) unless there was some kind of catastrophe going on that he could pit himself against. Fluffy and the Stone didn’t become an issue until later, though, and even the troll wasn’t until Halloween, so what was it that triggered Harry’s naturally tendency to fight?

It was Snape, wasn’t it? Well, at least the bloody bat was good for something. 

His mum was distracted by Fred and George’s antics, so Ron pulled his cart over to where his would-be best friend was standing, looking more nervous by the second. 

“Hi,” Ron said, unable to stifle his grin or the cheer in his voice. He was just so happy to see him! “Are you going to Hogwarts, too?”

Harry’s eyes brightened in relief and he nodded emphatically. “Yes! But I don’t understand the ticket.” He pulled it out of his pocket. “There’s not Platform Nine and Three Quarters.” 

“‘Course there is,” Ron said, eyeing the ticket. Since when did they get tickets? “It’s invisible so the muggles can’t see, though.” 

“Ron!” his mum called frantically and he turned to see her looking around for him in a rising panic. “Where are you, Ron?”

“Here, Mum.” He looked at Harry and nodded toward his mum. “Come on.” He dragged his cart back over to where she was standing and let her fuss over him. She ran her hand through his hair, attempting to tidy it, which was fairly pointless. It would just get messed up once the train was moving. 

Fred and George were gone, he noticed, along with Percy. All three had no doubt made their way through the barrier and onto the platform. Ginny was standing close by, quiet not out of shyness, he knew, but an attempt to hide how disappointed she was that all of her brothers were leaving her behind. He remembered the first time this had happened and she had followed the train, crying, until she reached the end of the platform. He hadn’t written to her at all that year, too busy being a big, tough first year, and she’d been furious with him when he returned home for the summer. Furious and sad, he knew now. No wonder she had fallen victim to that damn diary in her first year. He’d been a lousy brother, and a lousy friend, and that had ruined everything. 

“Ron, you need to hurry up and get on the platform.” His mum was apparently done fixing his hair to her liking. He was pleased she hadn’t mentioned anything about dirt on his face. He’d made sure to wash it that morning. Stupid gnomes.

He turned to Harry. “Come on, I’ll show you how.” Harry nodded nervously. “You just run through the barrier there between platforms nine and ten.” 

“The… the  _ wall _ ?”

“It only looks like a wall,” Ron promised. “Here, watch me. Then you can come through with my sister, Ginny.” He made sure he was facing away from the two of them so they wouldn’t see his grin. 

“Hi,” he heard her say softly. “I’m Ginny.”

“Harry,” his best friend said nervously. 

Ron didn’t stay to learn if they’d say more. He shoved his cart in front of him and took a run at the platform. He nearly stalled when he thought of what had happened their second year, but the momentum that he had already built up kept him moving and soon he was through!

The Hogwarts Express gleamed red and black, billowing smoke from the locomotive, and Ron couldn’t help but grin at the sight of it. The train had been attacked in his sixth year during the ride home, ambushed by Death Eaters who had been waiting on the tracks. When three students were killed and a lot more injured, it had been decided it was too dangerous to use as a means of transportation, even with adults on board to help protect the students. It had been retired, possibly permanently, and the students had been taken to Hogwarts by Floo. 

Not that that didn’t have its own set of dangers. 

“Wow!” Harry whispered and Ron turned around to see the dark-haired boy staring at the train in wide-eyed wonder. 

“Wicked, huh?” Ron asked, grinning at Harry’s expression. Sometimes he forgot that Harry was experiencing magic itself for the first time. He supposed that was probably pretty common in their world. He was so famous, his name known by every child in Wizarding Britain, that they forgot, or didn’t realize, he’d grown up without knowing any of it. 

“I don’t get to go until next year,” Ginny said despondently, looking down. 

Harry gave her a distressed look, clearly unsure of what to say. 

“I’ll make sure to write you and tell you all about it, Gin,” Ron promised, and he planned on keeping it. If he had his way, she would never suffer at the hands (or pages) of that bastard. 

Ginny looked at him from beneath her lashes. “Promise?”

He gave her a gin. “Yeah! Someone’s gonna have to help me plan some surprises for Fred and George.”

“You will not!” The train whistle blew loudly and she turned her attention to that, thank Merlin. “Oh, hurry up and get on the train, dear!”

Ron laughed and winked at Ginny. He turned to Harry. “Come on, quick, before we have to fly my dad’s car to Hogwarts.” 

“Ronald Bilius Weasley!”

The two of them threw their luggage in the compartment beneath the train and climbed aboard as the train began to move slowly forward. Ron leaned out of the doorway as Ginny started running down the platform in an attempt to keep up with the train. 

“Don’t cry, Ginny!” Fred yelled out of a window a few compartments down. 

“We’ll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat!” George promised. 

“Fred! George!”

Ron waved at his little sister, watching as she fell further and further behind. Her cheeks were littered with tears and for a moment, she wasn’t ten, but twenty, sitting on a bed in St. Mungo’s, her eyes blank and dead to the world, but still shedding tears. Endlessly crying for a world she wasn’t a part of anymore. Not really. 

He swallowed hard, felt the tears in his own eyes, and called out, “Love you, Gin!” She stumbled to a stop at the end of the platform, waving back at him. He couldn’t hear if she had answered him, didn’t know if she had even heard, but his fingers gripped the doorframe as he stared back at her as she grew further and further away. 

_ Don’t worry. I’ll make it better this time. I promise.  _

He wiped his eyes quickly before he turned away. Harry was standing behind him, looking curious and unsure. Ron forced a grin at him, even though his mind was twenty years in the future. 

“Let’s find a compartment, yeah? I told someone I would save them a seat.”

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. “Do you want me to… uh… I can…”

“You’ll sit with me right?” He suddenly realized he hadn’t told Harry his name, or asked for his. Thank Merlin he hadn’t addressed him by name. 

Then again…  _ Right, I’m a Seer, apparently.  _ Well, good. When he inevitably screwed up, he could blame it on that. 

“I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.” 

“Harry Potter.”

“Really?” Ron asked, and cringed internally at the excitement in his voice.  _ Way to sound like a pretentious git, idiot.  _ “I didn’t realize you were the same age as me.” 

Harry looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, just turned eleven in July.” 

“Well... “ Ron fumbled for something to say.  _ I already knew that, along with everyone else in Britain who has a wand  _ sounded like a  _ really _ bad idea. “Happy late birthday, then.” 

Harry smiled shyly at him. “Thanks.” 

Ron hesitated, but then decided to just go for it. “Look, I know some people are weird about the Harry Potter thing.” Harry met his eyes. “”And I can’t promise I won’t be sometimes. I mean, I grew up on stories about you.” He grimaced and decided not to say that Ginny would probably be worse. “But I can’t imagine… it’s probably really hard for you and I’m going to try to just… ignore it.” He frowned. That sounded rude. 

“That would be nice,” Harry said, and Ron looked up at him in surprise. He figured he’d mucked that up. “I only found out I was a wizard a month ago. Before that I was…” 

_ Treated like garbage. Enslaved. Beaten. Screamed at.  _ Ron could probably provide a whole essay’s worth of suggestions for that hesitation, and it made him angrier than he had expected.

“Just Harry.” 

Ron swallowed back the rage, not wanting Harry to see it and think it was directed at him. He slid a smile on his face, hoping it didn’t look at fake as it felt. “Nice to meet you, Harry.” 

Harry smiled back at him, looking relieved. “You too.” 

* * *

Ron didn’t let himself fall for Fred and George’s Sunshine Yellow spell this time. He was distracted anyway, as Hermione found them not long after they sat down in the first empty compartment they could find. 

“Hello again!” she said excitedly as she bounded in, then noticed Harry. “Oh! Are you a first year, too?” When Harry nodded, she thrust her hand in his face. “I’m Hermione Granger.” Once he had shaken it with some uncertainly, she flopped down into the seat next to Ron. “I’m so excited. I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I was up reading about the Houses. I don’t know which one I’ll be in, but they have a test in front of the whole school to decide where you’ll go.” She was beginning to work herself up, Ron could see, her face flushing white with nerves. “What if I fail? Will they send me home? Will I be kicked out of the Magical World?” Her voice turned shrill on the end and Ron finally leaned over and grabbed his wrists. 

“Hermione, calm down!” He didn’t laugh. He might have thought it was funny at one point, but he and Hermione had discussed her anxious nature one night after they ran into a Boggart unexpectedly and Hermione’s was still Professor McGonagall. Only this time, instead of telling her she had failed, the  _ faux  _ Transfiguration Professor had snapped the girl’s wand. Hermione had been a wreck of nerves for the rest of the day until Ron had finally sat her down and forced her to talk to him. 

_ “You don’t understand!” she shrieked, pacing the room in furious strides, her arms wrapped around herself. “You grew up with magic! You’re part of this world!” _

_ “So are you,” Ron said, confused.  _

_ “No!” She threw her arms down as though she could toss off all of his confusion and make him understand. “My parents are Muggles. I grew up in the Muggle World. In the  _ real world _!” _

_ “The Real World? Hermione, this world  _ is _ real!” _

_ “I know that.” She suddenly sounded exhausted and dropped into a chair, putting her head in her hands. She didn’t look up at him as she spoke. “When I was little, my parents told me that St. Nicholas - Santa Claus - brought me presents on Christmas, and the Easter Bunny brought colored eggs and chocolate, and the Tooth Fairy took my teeth and left a note behind. It’s the same things that the kids in primary school were told by their parents. The world was filled with these magical creatures who left us gifts for being good and eating our vegetables.” She drew a shuddering breath. “And then when I was nine, they told me it was a lie.” She lifted her head and looked at him, and he saw her face was red with tears. “They bought Christmas presents, hid eggs around the house, took my baby teeth and left money behind. The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy weren’t real.” Her lips quivered. “Magic wasn’t real.” _

_ Ron stared at her. He’d never heard of the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy, but they were apparently a big part of the Muggle World. He stayed quiet instead of asking, watching her struggle to speak around what was very obviously  _ grief _.  _

_ “And then Professor McGonagall showed up at my house and turned my coffee table into a  _ pig _. I… I made her prove it. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t let myself believe it. I had lost the magic when I was nine, and suddenly, someone was telling me it was real, and I was a part of that world. I could do magic, if I only learned how.” _

_ She met his eyes. “But what if I couldn’t do it? What if it turned out I wasn’t good at it? Would they tell me to go home? Would they take the magic away again?” She shook her head. “I couldn’t… they couldn’t give it back and then take it away again, Ron. I can’t… I don’t…” She burst into tears.  _

_ Ron wrapped her in a hug and listened as she sobbed into his cheeks, seven years of fear rising to the surface, and couldn’t imagine for a moment not knowing magic existed, or worse, believing you would lose it for not being good enough.  _

_ “You are a witch, Hermione,” he said fiercely into her ear once her sobs had calmed enough that she could hear him. “You’re the smartest witch of your age, but that doesn’t matter. You have magic and  _ no one _ is going to take that away from you. They can’t. You’re a part of this world.” He kissed the top of her head and whispered into her hair, “You belong here and no one will take the magic away from you again.”  _

“The test is just some silly old hat that reads your thoughts and figures out where you’d fit. It’s not a pop quiz or anything. That wouldn’t be fair. I’d totally fail and I grew up in a magical house.” 

Hermione had stopped shuddering in anxiety and was looking at him in worry, as though afraid he was lying. 

“The Sorting Hat sings a song. Badly, by the way.” Hermione giggled. “And then you get called up one by one to put it on and it decides where you should go so you’ll room with people who are like you. I guess it’s a way to make friends.”

She sat back away from him, her face red with tears that she swiftly wiped away. Ron realized Harry himself was looking relieved at his explanation. Was he this worried during his first run? Probably. Fred and George had told him he’d have to wrestle a troll, after all.

Ha.

“So the four Houses are Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin,” he said, deciding that maybe he could stop some more concerns here, too, but he’d have to honest about the Houses and not an arse like he had been in the past. 

“So Gryffindor is supposed to be the House of the Brave, but the other Houses tend to describe it as impulsive. My… aunt says it’s like the King Arthur of Hogwarts Houses. Grab your sword and run into danger all gung-ho.” That was actually Hermione’s description of Gryffindor, though he couldn’t exactly credit her. Of course, his resultant confusion had resulted in her force-feeding him the legends of King Arthur and Merlin that the muggles knew. He was pretty sure he’d read more books once he was out of school than he had as a student. 

“Ravenclaw is the House of the Smart, or House of the Bookworms, according to some. Most of the members of that house love to learn and read and spend most of their time in the library, studying or doing independent projects. At least, that’s the Ravenclaw that most people envision. There are some Ravenclaws who are smart in other ways, and who maybe don’t seem to be just because they’re so different.” He thought of Luna Lovegood, who had perhaps been smarter than all of them, if only they had deigned to listen to her. Not the words she said, because oftentimes they  _ didn’t _ make sense, but the rest of it. She had disappeared after the war. After her father died, she left on a expedition to find the magical creatures she could name that no one else believed in. She sent Hermione and Ron a postcard from Nevada, where she mentioned talking to a man named Waters about a hole, a month into her expedition, and then was never heard from again. Ron was surprised by how much he missed her. 

“Hufflepuff is the House of the Loyal.”

Harry interrupted with an unsure, “Hagrid said they’re duffers.” 

Ron almost scowled. Why would Hagrid say something like that? The not-yet-a-professor Gamekeeper didn’t even believe Snape was an evil git because he was a teacher. Why would he suggest Hufflepuff was full of idiots?

“A lot of the other Houses look down on Hufflepuff, because they don’t rush into things or try to get better grades than everyone else or have Slytherin’ reputation, but they’re not a dull House. Hufflepuffs value loyalty, good friends, and hard work, not glory or trophies.”

He drew a deep breath. “Slytherin probably has the worst reputation of all of them. They’re the House of the Cunning and pride themselves on their ambition. A lot of people think they’re evil, mostly because Voldemort-” Hermione gasped but Harry didn’t react at all. “-was in Slytherin, but he was an evil sod even before Hogwarts.”

“Children aren’t born evil, Ron,” Hermione said. 

Ron nodded. “True,” and he  _ so  _ shouldn’t know this, “but torturing animals and other people is one of the warning signs for a potential psychopath, isn’t it?” Hermione’s face went pale and she didn’t say anything. 

It had been Hermione who had told him that, not too long after Ginny had told them of Voldemort’s childhood. Hermione had been doing research to determine what had caused him to turn mad and evil and delved into learning about psychopathy for a while. There had been a lot of Firewhiskey had during those days. And much more in the days after. 

“But that doesn’t make Slytherin a bad House. Voldemort and the Death Eaters give it a bad name, and a lot of the Death Eaters have kids in that House, but that’s mostly them trying to keep up an image. There’s nothing wrong with ambition.” He was quoting an older Hermione now. “Ambition drives you to do better, to be better than you have been in the past, and to follow your dreams. And cunning is a skill we should be happy to have.” He stopped and cleared his throat before he affected her strident, bossy tone by accident. 

“I guess the snake part makes people nervous, too.” At their confused looks, he said, “Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth. That means he could speak Parseltongue.” They both looked at him blankly. “You know, talk to snakes.”

“Oh!” Harry said, as though it was suddenly obvious. “I can do that, too.” 

Ron grinned at him. “You and my brother Bill would get along, I think. Or, at least, he’d love to talk to you. He runs into snakes all the time at his job.”

“What’s he do?” Hermione asked. Ron’s explanation of the Houses and the Sorting had obviously calmed her down and answered her questions, if she was moving on to another topic. 

“He’s a Curse Breaker for Gringott’s. Right now he’s in Egypt, raiding the tombs to get rid of the magical traps so the Muggle government can  _ discover _ them.” 

“That’s amazing!” Hermione said. “You mean the Magical World has tombs just waiting to be released to the Muggle World all the time?”

“Of course. We have to be careful to get through all the traps or it’ll be King Tut’s Curse all over again.” 

Hermione looked ready to sing she was so excited. “Can I write your brother? Do you think he’d talk to me about it?”

Ron laughed. 

The train ride continued like that for the rest of the trip, them asking each other questions about their lives, learning about their families and each other. Ron even learned things he hadn’t known before, like what exactly a dentist  _ did _ (and he was never so grateful for Madam Pomfrey as when he heard of a Root Canal) and the difference between a dentist’s drill and the kind Harry’s uncle sold at Grunning’s. 

It was the continuation of the best friendship Ron had ever had, only different, somehow. Better. He stared at Harry and Hermione, sitting together with him on the train, friends from the beginning. 

Harry bought sweets from the trolley when it came around and Ron shared his corned beef sandwiches with the two of them. Draco Malfoy tried to be an irritant, but Ron was in too good a mood to less the boy’s snottiness bother him. Harry turned him away, just as he had last time, looking disgusted at the boy’s manners. Ron heard an echo of “My father will hear about it!” as the boy strode away down the corridor, following by Crabbe and Goyle. He would probably be a problem like he was last time, but for the moment, Ron didn’t bother with Malfoy. 

He sat in the compartment with his two best friends and just let the wonder of the day, of this chance, wash over him. 

Things would get complicated soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Luna's postcard, Mel Waters discovered what is known as a Devil's Hole on his property in Washington, a seemingly-unending hole with occasionally terrifying properties. He later discovered another in Nevada. If you're interested, you can read about Mel Waters and the Devil's Holes [here](http://mysteriousuniverse.org/2011/08/mel-waters-and-the-devils-holes).


	9. Sorting Nervously

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron, Harry, and Hermione make it to the Sorting, and it goes a little differently than Ron had expected.

**NINE**

**Sorting Nervously**

* * *

His first view of Hogwarts in this lifetime was even more wonderful than the very first time he had seen it. The last time his eyes had set on the castle, it had been in pieces, demolished during Voldemort’s attack. So much old magic had been put into the making and the warding of it, they weren't sure that it could be put back together. Not with so much magic and knowledge lost to time.

The closer they got to the Great Hall, the more nervous Ron became. What if telling Harry and Hermione about the Houses had changed their opinion of them? What if Harry ended up in Slytherin and Hermione in Ravenclaw while he was stuck alone in Gryffindor?

His worries over the Sorting continued even as McGonagall called out the names of the students one by one, and people were sorted the same as they had been last time.

Hermione’s turn came and it seemed to Ron that it took even longer for her to be sorted than it had to first time. His stomach twisting in knots, he cheered when the hat called out “Gryffindor!” and then blushed scarlet when everyone looked at him.

Harry also ended up in Gryffindor, though the length of his Sorting promised that the hat had been trying to convince him going for Slytherin like last time.

He was practically humming with happiness as the Sorting continued, until he stood beside Blaise Zabini in front of the school.

Utterly amused, he couldn't help turning to the boy and giving him a cursory look, long enough that Zabini noticed him and raised a slender eyebrow in a silent and derisive “Can I help you?”

Ron grinned. “Enjoy Slytherin.”

“Weasley, Ronald,” McGonagall called and he walked over to the Sorting hat before Blaise could respond.

Sitting on the stool, the hat tumbled down over his eyes, hiding the Great Hall from view. He was mentally humming “Gryffindor!”, thinking about late nights awake in bed, talking with Harry, or sitting in the Common Room playing Chess, Hermione close by, reading one of her textbooks. So it came as a complete and not very pleasant surprise when the Sorting Hat muttered, “Well, this is interesting.”

Ron stopped kicking his legs in nervous excitement. _What’s interesting?_

“You know, I once had a young Slytherin who used an illegal time turner to try and go back and change his Sorting. Turned out rather nasty for everyone involved, myself included. I have a burn right under the back of my flap from that incident, and frankly, I thought that was the most interesting thing I would ever see. But you’ve gone back quite a bit further than five hours, haven’t you?”

Ron gnawed on his bottom lip - a nervous gesture he had picked up from his wife. He tried not to think of anything, hoping the hat would just sort him and be done with it.

“Oh, but _where_ to sort you? That’s the question, dear boy! I’d be sorely tempted to put you in Salazar’s House if I didn’t think it would do you more harm than good. Mind you, your grandfather certainly tried to make himself fit in their company. Managed too, if your being here is any indication.” The hat chortled loudly.

_My grandfather?_

“Septimus Weasley! He did marry Cedrella, after all, and she was Slytherin to the core. I hardly had to take a look. She knew right where she belonged.”

_So do I!_ Ron thought fiercely. _Gryffindor! Gryffindor! Gryffindor!_

“Are you so sure, though? True that Slytherin wouldn’t suit you, not how it is today, but you have plans within plans, and if that isn’t a Ravenclaw trait, then I’m a _boot_!”

_Ravenclaw? Are you mad?!_

“Hahaa! Well, there have been times I’ve been told as much. Got bits of four different brains in me, don’t I? You can’t imagine how Salazar and Godric fight over some of your classmates.” He tsked in good humor.

“Ah, but Ravenclaw is the House for book-lovers and those who take enjoyment from learning more than anything else. I can see you’re putting your books before play, but you’ll never value them the way that your friend Hermione does. No, you’d rather be riding a broomstick than stuck in the library reading.”

Ron grimaced. He had tried to love books the way that Hermione did, but no matter how hard he tried to bury himself in that mindset, he always ran for the broom shed given half a chance.

“You can’t change who you are inside, dear boy. Nor should you try.” The hat hummed and hawed a little, then said, “Really, I think the best House for you would be…”

_Don’t you dare!_ Ron thought fiercely, nearly falling off the stool when he realized where the hat planned to put him.

“Really, now, Helga’s House would suit you well. You didn’t come back to change your own fate out of selfish desires. You’re here to save your friends, to better the world, and you have no desires to tell anyone the true secret of your knowledge. You’re content to hide behind this illusion of The Sight, not seeking glory for your actions. Helga would be proud to have you. Frankly, she’s being rather demanding about it.”

Ron had never thought that the hat would want to put _him_ somewhere else, least of all the House of the Loyal. All he could think of was how he had acted in his Fourth Year, and every time he had been jealous of his best friend and turned on him. Loyal? _Him_?

“You have the benefit of hindsight to help you, but a word of warning - the very act of observing something alters it. You’ve lived your whole past and just by knowing, you’re changing things even before you say things to people that you _think_ will happen.”

Ron swallowed heavily.

“Yet still, you have every intention of going on.” The hat hummed in what sounded like approvable. “Perhaps you’re right and you do belong in **GRYFFINDOR**!”

Ron sagged in relief and stood up from the stool. Just before he pulled the hat from his head, he heard “The Headmaster keeps me on a shelf in his office. Do come for a chat later if you need some advice.”

_Thanks._

He pulled the hat off to the sight of Gryffindor House giving him a standing ovation, and an empty spot in between Harry and Hermione. He dashed over to the table, getting slaps on the back from the twins and a small smile from Percy, which seemed like a prize all its own.

“We were starting to get worried,” Hermione said, grinning widely at him.

“Why?”

“You were talking to the hat for a while,” Harry said. “I thought maybe it wanted to put you somewhere else like it did me.”

Ron nodded. “It did.” He hadn’t realized that he had been sitting there for so long, though. “It wanted to put me in Hufflepuff.”

“Slytherin for me,” Harry said.

Hermione nodded. “It thought about putting me in--”

“ **RAVENCLAW!** ”

Ron whipped his head around to stare up at the Sorting Hat, which Blaise Zabini was pulling off his head. Blaise Zabini, who had been in Slytherin during his last life.

He caught sight of the rip in the hat, twisted into a smirk, and then one of the shadowed folds in the cloth _winked_ at him.

_“You’re changing things even before you say things to people that you think will happen.”_

Blaise Zabini stepped off the stage and walked over to the Ravenclaw table, clapping politely for him. The Slytherins didn’t look concerned at not having him in their House, because as far as they knew, he was a Ravenclaw from the start. Only Ron knew that Blaise Zabini had once been a Slytherin.

Ron and the Sorting Hat.

It looked like he needed to sit down and think things through, because if saying a single thing - “Enjoy Slytherin.” - could change the outcome, what could knowing all that he knew do?

Suddenly, this second chance business looked entirely too complicated for him to be handling on his own. Maybe he should think about telling someone what was going on.

Even if it was that he was a Seer.

He frowned down at his plate as Dumbledore made his pre-feast announcements.

Maybe he needed to start Seeing things.

As the plates and bowls filled with food, Ron decided to enjoy the Feast and his second-first night in the castle. He’d worry about the rest tomorrow.

He piled his plate high with food, the growling of his stomach reminding him how long it had been since they’d eaten their snacks on the train.

“I’m so glad we’re all in the same House,” Hermione was saying excitedly. “It’s nice to actually know people. I was worried I was going to be alone.”

_Not if I can help it,_ Ron thought, looking at her. “Me too.”

“Are you excited for Charms?” Of course Hermione would remember the class that he had mentioned in Flourish and Blotts.

“Yeah. I can’t wait to start using magic.”

Hermione looked ready to burst with excitement. “Me too!”

“What classes are you looking forward to, Harry?”

Harry shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. “Potions looks pretty interesting. I like cooking and it doesn’t seem much different from that.”

Ron frowned, wondering what was bothering his friend. “My brothers said it gets more complicated in higher years, but yeah, it looks pretty easy to start with.” If only Snape actually knew how to teach. “Percy, you met him earlier, right?” Harry nodded, because it would be very like Percy to introduce himself to the Boy-Who-Lived. “He said the Potions professor is a bit unfair to people, doesn’t like teaching, either.” He hadn’t actually said _that_ , but since Ron knew it was true… “He said I should make sure to read my book before class. I was going to go over some of the chapters again tonight if you want to study with me.”

Harry finally met his eyes. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

By the time the Feast was over, Ron was remembering why he’d gone to bed right away that first time. Stuffed full of food, having eaten about three different types of dessert, by the time they made it up to the Common Room, he was ready to drop. He yawned hugely as the Prefects introduced themselves, blinking his eyes to try and stay awake. Beside him, Harry’s head was nodding and even Hermione looked exhausted.

Finally, the Prefects sent them up to their rooms.

Ron changed into his pajamas, trying not to fall over and more often than not yawning into the fabric of his shirt as he pulled it off or on. He threw his dirty clothes in the laundry basket provided for their room, which would send their clothes to the House Elves to wash and later return.

He grabbed a book out of his trunk, even though he really just wanted to go to bed, and flopped down on the mattress. He wasn’t looking forward to Potions class any more than he had been that first time, but he was determined to prove Snape wrong. He, Harry, and Hermione had brewed a Polyjuice Potion in their second year, in a bathroom. They could pass Potions, and do well.

“Aren’t you tired?” Harry asked quietly. He was still being really shy, which irritated Ron a little. It seemed so wrong.

“Yeah.” Ron grinned at him. “But I really don’t want to look like an idiot in Potions.” He moved over so there was room next to him. “You want to study with me or you want to go to bed?”

“Definitely bed,” Harry said, but he gave a shy grin and moved over to Ron’s bed so they could read his text between them.

They only managed it for an hour before they had to give in and go to bed, but when they finally did, Harry’s grin came a little faster and he actually met Ron’s eyes. Ron still didn’t understand what the problem was, but he was glad just the same that it was getting better.

“Night, Harry,” Ron said, cherishing the sound of his friend’s name, that he was actually here.

“Night, Ron.”

Ron closed his eyes against the second-first night at Hogwarts and dreamed of him, Harry, and Hermione sitting around a table, long-since graduated, laughing at something with smiles on their faces. Happy.

That was what he was here for. That was why he had come back. They would have that happy ending eventually, but for now, he was content to dream it.  


	10. Waking Lately

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron wakes up and realizes he's late! Not a good way to start his second-first day.

**Ten**

**WAKING LATELY**

* * *

_The bed dipped as someone settled on the edge of the mattress beside him. He opened his eyes, peering up through the dark to see long hair, frizzy and wild, framing a face he could never forget._

_“Changing things already, Ron?”_

_“That’s what I’m here for.” He frowned at her suddenly, then looked around. He was in the dormitory at Hogwarts, the other beds filled with sleeping eleven-year-olds. He looked back at Hermione, who looked all of her almost-twenty-five years. “How are you here?”_

_Her lips curled upward in a smile. "I'm just a dream, my love."_

_She bent closer until her hair hovered around his face, brushing against his cheeks. Her brown eyes gleamed with what looked like magic. He lifted his head up, pressing his lips against hers. His mouth burned with an incendio, his mind bursting like he'd just been hit with a cheering charm. He smiled against her lips. "You're the best kind of dream."_

_She pressed her lips briefly to his and he was sure he could taste magic.  When she pulled back to look at him, her eyes were dancing with laughter. "It's time to wake up now, Ron. You're late._ _"_

Ron blinked open his eyes. The room was bright with magic, particles floating lazily through the air. He blinked. Particles of what? He stretched out his arms, reaching for Hermione, only to meet empty air.

He rolled over, wondering if she had gone to the office to do some research, and saw an eleven-year-old Harry lying in the bed across from him.

He was at Hogwarts.

He was eleven.

He looked out the window and saw the sun sitting high in the sky.

He was late!

He scrambled out of bed, tangled himself in the bed sheets, and tumbled to the floor. The word he said then didn’t belong in the vocabulary of any eleven-year-old.

“Whassagoinon?” Dean Thomas asked, lifting his head from his pillow to display a puddle of drool where his face had been.

“We’re late!” Ron snapped, kicking at his sheets and scrambling to his feet. “We need to get down to breakfast.”

“Forget breakfast. Sleep.”

“We have class after breakfast, Dean.” He grabbed his clothes out of his trunk and began to strip, yanking on fresh clothes with the speed of someone who knew McGonagall’s standards.

Dean ignored him, rolling over and going back to sleep.

“Dude, why are you changing in here?” Seamus yelled, covering his face with his hands. “I don’t need to see your ass.”

Ron ignored him. He pulled on his shirt and then threw his robes on over top of them. He turned to wake Harry, only to find the other boy had apparently heard them talking and woken up. He was in the process of getting dressed himself.

Running his fingers through his hair to try and turn it into some kind of decent, he hurried over to Neville’s bed. He was the only boy who hadn’t woken up to Ron’s flailing escape for his bedsheets. He shook the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, Neville, we’re late for breakfast.”

Neville sat up so fast they almost cracked heads. Ron leaned back just in time to avoid starting his dead with a headache. “What?” Neville asked, breathing heavily as though he had been running.

“We overslept,” Ron said gently. He watched Neville blink away the remnants of whatever nightmare he had been trapped in. He had learned about Neville’s parents in his sixth year, around the same time that he met his grandmother for the first time. The reasons for Neville’s lack of confidence became clear pretty quickly. Ron hadn’t been friends with Neville the way he had been with Harry and Hermione. They knew each other from being in the same House and having the same classes, but Neville had always been someone who messed things up, it seemed, or fell prey to other people, like Malfoy.

Things probably would have been better for him if he’d had people to turn to consistently, rather than living on the fringes of life at Hogwarts. Ron could help with that, too.

“They hand out our class schedules during breakfast. If we don’t hurry down, McGonagall’s gonna come looking for us, and I don’t want to be here when she does.”

Neville scrambled out of bed and grabbed his clothes from his trunk, rushing to the bathroom to change. Ron returned to his bed, grabbing the sheets and yanking them into some semblance of order. He half expected to see _Scabbers_ roll into view, disturbed by his movements of the sheets, but that wasn’t going to happen this year.

He’d wanted to get rid of the rat completely, call the Aurors and hand him over to them. It would get Sirius out of Azkaban, and that was a good thing, but as he and Hermione had discussed before he came back, it would also change the timeline too much for his foreknowledge to be of any use. He could change things, but he would have to be careful.

Despite his agreement with Hermione to hold off on dealing with the rat, he could hardly stand to look at the creature, knowing it was a Death Eater. When Percy had solemnly bequeathed the rodent to Ron, it had taken all of his self-control to avoid yanking out his wand and sending a cutting curse at the rat. He had managed to take Scabbers from Percy without throwing up, but he had quickly transferred the rat to a cage he asked his mum to transfigure. He had used the excuse that he was concerned about the owls from Charlie and Bill wouldn’t know not to eat him and Ron would lose his new pet. In truth, he employed the lock on the cage with severe prejudice, though he was careful to keep his true feelings hidden from the rat. Best to act the doting owner who was scared for his new pet. He couldn’t ask his mum for an unbreakable spell on the cage without sounded suspicious, especially with Fred and George whispering plans to each other every time they were just far enough out of earshot to avoid being overheard.

He’d thought long and hard about what to do with the rat. On one hand, he didn’t want to let the creature out of his sight. On the other hand, close proximity and constantly seeing him would very possibly wear down Ron’s willpower until he _accidentally_ let Scabbers get eaten by one of the other students’ pets. Lee Jordan had a pet tarantula. Would Peter Pettigrew being in a small form make him more affected by spider venom? If not, Ron knew where to find a nest of hungry Acromantula.

That was delving too close to Voldemort’s way of doing things, and though the war would coming, it hadn’t reached them yet. Ron had to be careful not to act on things that hadn’t happened yet, though he would agree that Peter Pettigrew had paid for whatever would come to him. But not yet.

In the end, he had left _Scabbers_ at home, citing concern that he might have a roommate with a cat, and asked Ginny if she would feed the rat for him. It would give her something to do and a set of eyes on the rat, though he had been concerned about leaving his little sister alone with a Death Eater. Even a coward of a Death Eater. He was limited in what he could do for now, though, and better to have Scabbbers none the wiser than in the dorm with him, slowly catching on that something was up.

Still, he felt off kilter, not having the rat there, and worried for his family, alone in the house with a rat he knew was actually a Death Eater. As he put his bed to rights and gathered up the books he would need for the day, he also made sure to grab some extra parchment. He’d write Ginny a letter during breakfast. He did promise, after all, and it would make him feel better to hear that she was doing well.

Neville came back into the dorm a few moments later and, he, Ron, and Harry all ready, they made their way down to breakfast.

“There you are!” Hermione said, standing up from her seat as they made their way to the Gryffindor table. “I was worried you were going to miss getting your class schedule.”

And McGonagall was passing out their schedules, he could see. She came over to them as they took the empty seats Hermione had saved around her. She moved to one side to make room for Neville, who she hadn’t expected, and a new plate popped up in front of him. The three of them began putting food on their plates.

“Good morning, Misters Weasley, Potter, and Longbottom.” She waved her wand and three pieces of paper rose from the pile in her hands, hovering in the air in front of them. “These are you classes schedules for this term. I suggest not losing them, but be sure to memorize them, regardless. And you’ll want to hurry up and eat so you can get what books you need from your dorm.” She turned and headed off. “See you all in class.”

Ron grabbed his schedule and shoved it in his pocket before going back to eating his breakfast. Hermione, after years of marriage and more years of friendship prior to that, had finally bullied him into having some manners. He still ate fast, but at least he had learned not to talk with his mouth full. Mostly he didn’t talk much at all.

It was strange being eleven again, for a number of reasons. As an adult, he still loved to eat, but he hadn’t realized until he came back how little he had been eating in comparison to when he was a child. He was lucky his mum was used to feeding growing boys, because at home, he had kept going for another helping of food, and it was the same in the Great Hall. He finished the sausages on his plate and piled on another helping of bacon, eggs, and a chocolate muffin as someone down the table called them to pass the plate.

“Um… Ron,” Neville said, uncertain, “we have to go get our books.”

Ron waved his hand at them. “I already brought mine. I’ll catch up.” He shoved another forkful of eggs in his mouth. Why was he so hungry?

Hermione hesitated as she rose from the table. “How did you know what classes we would have?”

Ron stilled. Um… how did he know that?

“Why, we told him, dear girl.” Fred sidled up on Hermione’s one side, giving her a grin when she looked at him, startled.

“We nabbed the schedule for McGonagall _ages_ ago.”

“Well, we say ages.”

“More like hours.”

“Only been here a day, after all.”

“We’re not that good.”

“Yet!” they both said together, then grinned down at her.

“Um…” She looked completely flummoxed. Not a common look for Hermione.

“Gred, Forge.” The two of them looked delighted that Ron had used their nicknames.

“We’re Ron’s very attractive old brothers. I’m Fred.”

“And I’m George. Pleasure to meet you, Miss…”

Hermione blushed as George grabbed her hand and bent over it in a very traditional Lord-greeting-a-lady form. “Granger Hermione, I mean… I’m Hermione.” She gave an embarrassed smile. “Hi.”

“Hi, indeed, dear lady.”

Fred smacked his brother. “Stop it, you’re making her nervous.”

“Your face is making her nervous.”

“You’re both making _me_ nervous,” Ron spouted, brandishing a fork at them. “Thanks for letting me know what classes I had, not that I wasn’t worried you might be pranking me.”

“Us, prank our dear little brother?”

“Perish the thought, Ronniekins. Surely you think better of us than that.”

Ron pointed the fork at them and they laughed. “Fine, we’ll go.” George detached himself from Hermione, giving her a wink before wandering off.

“Enjoy Potions!” Fred declared, taking off after his brother.

“Enjoy Defense!” he shouted back, then chuckled to himself. He turned to find Hermione watching him. He eyed his plate, shoved the final piece of bacon in his mouth, and stood. “Don’t worry about my brothers. They’re weird and they might turn your hair blue at some point, but they mean well.”

Hermione smiled softly. “There _are_ weird.”

“Yep! But it’s definitely going to keep Hogwarts interesting.”

* * *

They met the others as they stepped into the Common Room. Harry and Neville was coming down the stairs with their bags, a still-half-asleep Dean and Seamus stumbling behind them. Hermione raced up to her room and came down a few minutes later with her own bag thumping against her hip.

“Are we late?”

Ron pulled out his wand and did a tempus spell before he even thought about it, then stared at the glowing numbers in the air so he couldn’t meet Hermione’s curious eyes. He didn’t learn that spell until third year, but…

“My brother Bill taught me an alarm spell, too, but I didn’t remember to set it this morning.”

“Oh, that will be helpful,” Hermione said. “It was hard to wake up without my alarm clock.”

Ron breathed an internal sigh of relief, glad that she hadn’t caught on. He knew, even without her having warned him, that she would be watching his every move the moment he proved to be someone she needed to struggle to keep up with academically. Even more than Quirrell, who despite having Voldemort attached to the back of his head was an idiot, she would be his biggest concern as he tried to adapt to being younger again.

Then again, they had both been certain he would arrive sometime in his third year. At least this is how this Hermione knew him from the start. It would hopefully make things a little easier.

“We still have half an hour,” he supplied. “But I don’t want to be late to Snape’s class.” He moved toward the portrait hole and the others followed him. Dean and Seamus muttered something about breakfast and went a different direction while Ron led them toward the dungeons.

“You seem to know a lot about the professors here.”

Ron grinned at Hermione. “I have five older brothers.” He saw Hermione’s eyes widen. “Yeah. You met Fred and George. Percy’s one of the Prefects. Charlie works on a dragon preserve in Romania, and Bill is a cursebreaker in Egypt.”

“You told us about Bill on the train,” she remembered. “Five? Really?”

He laughed. “Yeah, and a little sister. She starts Hogwarts next year. But my older brothers have all told me a bit about the professors, except for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, since he’s new, but they only after last a year at most and they’re usually… the best that Dumbledore can find.” Which didn’t say much, really.

“So what do you know about Professor Snape?” she asked. Good. Exactly the discussion he wanted to have. He glanced at Harry and Neville to make sure they were listening. Now, how to say this diplomatically...

“Professor Snape is very serious about Potions. They’re dangerous to fool around with, because one wrong move and things can explode.” Which really, if you looked at it from that perspective, it made sense that he would be so strict. A pity that wasn’t consistent. “But he’s biased for his own House, so even if they do something wrong, he doesn’t punish them for it.”

As the end of the war grew nearer, Ron, Harry, and Hermione found themselves working with the other Houses. Not just Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, but also Slytherin. It had been difficult for Ron at first, and he hadn’t made it easy for anyone else, jumping to conclusions and calling every one of them a Death Eater. He assumed each one of them was exactly like Draco Malfoy, and he’d made absolutely no secret of it. He didn’t want to admit that they were human, even as he learned more about them. Although he accepted the necessity of working with them, he kept them at arm’s length, refusing to trust them completely. Of course, everything eventually came to a head during the Battle of Hogwarts. It was Daphne Greengrass, one of those mistrusted Slytherins, who died defending a younger group of Hufflepuffs, and Astoria, her younger sister, who killed Bellatrix Lestrange in a fury after her sister’s death. She’d nearly died in the fight, her magical core rupturing from the use of more powerful magic than her still-growing core could handle. Tracey Davis recovered from her physical injuries, but she never emotionally recovered from the death of her girlfriend. They lost contact with her after the battle. She didn’t even stay around to finish her education.

After the war was over, the only Slytherin that Ron and Hermione kept in contact with was Blaise. Astoria had left Britain with him for a country with better views of “dark creatures,” and they learned from him that though she never recovered her magic after her core’s eruption left her little better than a squib, she met and fell in love with a half-merman. Last he’d heard, she had three beautiful quarter-mermaid daughters, one of whom had displayed magic and would likely be invited to go to Beauxbatons. That would tip the world on its head.

Ron could honestly say that Blaise had turned out to be a friend. A good friend, even. He fell in with a vampire coven that migrated across a vast area and would send Ron and Hermione letters of his efforts to come to terms with his new condition. They learned a lot about vampires that way and had even gone to visit him at one point - a visit which culminated in Hermione interviewing the clan’s leader. With his permission (and, quite frankly, pleased approval), Hermione published a book on the true nature of vampires. It was scoffed at by many, but some schools outside of Britain had picked it up and added it to their curriculum. Hermione also received a heartfelt thanks for her kind and true portrayal from the clan leader, and an offer to turn the both of them, if mortal life ever left them bored and they hoped to try something new.

They had both declined, but Ron recognized that look in his wife’s eyes. Thirty or forty years down the road might have had them accepting, and Marius had time to wait.

“That seems unfair,” Hermione said, drawing Ron out of his thoughts. He turned to look at her, thinking about what he had been saying. Oh. Right.

“Yeah, but he’s got a good reason for it. Listen to the way the other students, and even the teachers, treat Slytherin. They’re constantly seen as being the House of Death Eaters, even though that’s not true. Everyone thinks they’re evil and treats them that way. So it’s not really any surprise if they become exactly what they’ve been told they always were, is it?”

He didn’t know for sure, but he and Hermione both suspected that if they hadn’t been so reluctant to consider the Slytherins potential allies, they might have been able to keep some of the others from turning toward Voldemort. Draco Malfoy had been a lost cause from the start and Pansy Parkinson would follow the ferret anywhere, but as he understood it from Blaise, Theodore Nott had been conflicted about where his family stood, until he was given an ultimatum. It was when he had nowhere else to turn that he accepted to Dark Mark and became their enemy, but before that, he had been just a boy.

 _An eleven-year-old boy_ , Ron reminded himself. Even Malfoy, evil as he was, was only eleven.

“That’s not right,” Neville said, his face screwed up in thought. “Why do the teachers treat the students like that, too. Shouldn’t they be unbiased?”

“Probably,” Ron said, “but they were affected by the war, too, and they’re only human. It’s not an excuse for failing to be proper teachers, but they can’t really jump on Snape’s back for being biased against the other Houses when they’re guilty of the same thing.”

“So he’s strict and biased toward Slytherin. What else?” Harry asked, as though ticking off notes.

Ron hesitated, wondering how to put this. “He tends to choose who he wants to answer a question for a reason. He doesn’t like when other people jump in to try and answer for them.” He didn’t look at Hermione. “It’s best to just sit quietly, pay attention, take notes, and only talk when he speaks to you.”

Hermione looked horrified at not being able to ask questions. “What if I don’t understand something?”

“If it’s not something that will have your cauldron blowing up if you don’t have an answer right then, I’d research it yourself or ask an older student.”

Neville frowned. “I don’t know… I’m really not very good at magic. I’m practically a squib. What if I melt my cauldron because I don’t understand?” His face was white with nerves.

“You _won’t_ , Neville. You said you like plants, right?” Neville nodded even though Ron knew he hadn’t told him _anything_ about liking plants. “So Potions uses a lot of plants. It pairs well with Herbology, and you know a ton about plants. You’ll be fine.” Neville looked dubious. “Besides, Snape let’s up sit in pairs. Hermione can sit with Harry and I’ll sit with you. Between the two of us, we won’t blow anything up.”

“O-okay,” Neville said, unsure.

“What do you mean about not blowing anything up?” Hermione asked sharply. “It’s our first class! We’re not just going straight to brewing!”

“You read your Potions book, right, Hermione?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“So you know how to brew Potions.” He grinned at her as they arrived at the corridor outside the classroom. 

She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, but Ron just continued to smile. He wasn't concerned. The three of them had practiced Potions independently as the war raged and even after. Ron would never be a Potions Master, and he'd certainly never be as good as Hermione, but he could still brew all his first year potions without a problem. If he was honest with himself, he was almost looking forward to it. 

That probably should have been his first clue that things wouldn't go as planned. 


	11. Erroring Explosively

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When thinking about the past-future and your Potion's professor's negative impact on it, it's best not to meet the eyes of a man capable of plucking said thoughts right from your head. This is not how Ron planned to spend his first class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple things I wanted to point out for clarity’s sake. I noted that this story is an AU, and I suppose that’s obvious with Ron having gone back in time. I should also clarify that this is an AU from the end of Order of the Phoenix onward. Books Six and Seven didn’t happen the way JKR wrote them, and I won’t be having Horcruxes like she did. I’ve read a lot of Harry goes back in time and deals with the Horcruxes early and they’re great stories, but I’m also a little bored with the same thing happening over and over. So I’m doing things a little differently.
> 
> A couple readers have also pointed out that my fic doesn’t follow canon in the way magic works. That’s going to happen sometimes. I’m not going to do a lot of it, not like I’ve been doing with The Search for Life and Death, but occasionally you’ll find things like “magical cores” pop up, or the thing with Bill’s eyes that I’ll talk more about later. I know I have some people who are very true to canon in their reading who are following the story. If you’re on the fence about sticking around, I hope you’ll continue to hang on and see if the story can still keep your interest, but I’ll understand if it’s not you style and thank you for giving it a chance.
> 
> I’ve received a wonderful bunch of constructive criticism and it’s awesome. I love it when you guys voice your ponderings and questions, and I appreciate those of you who have offered corrections where I made errors.
> 
> So, a little clarification on the AUness of the story. As to the questions about Ron promoting Snape as a decent human being: as this chapter will illustrate, that isn’t what he’s trying to do. Remember that despite his future knowledge, Ron is still a flawed human being. He’s attempting to change the past directly, but as we all know, we can’t change people – they have to do it themselves.
> 
> As for my personal views on Snape, which have been questioned, I think he’s a bully. No person who attacks a child based on their views of his father, or even their past with their father, deserves to work in a job that involves young minds. His bias toward his own House is secondary to his treatment toward other students. He is cruel and makes it difficult for any student to trust that they can go to a teacher for help. However, I do agree that some (not all) of the other professors are biased against Slytherin House. Hagrid proved this in the first book, even if he wasn’t a teacher, then. I think Dumbledore’s own past, both with Grindelwald and with Riddle, has biased him against the House. McGonagall has proven herself in the books to be very fair among the Houses, going so far as to punish her own House harder than she would others, but some of the other professor’s actions toward students have suggested that they can’t remain unbiased. Quite a lot of students believe that Sytherin is evil and Hufflepuff is full of rejects, and that bias had to start somewhere. The fact that the teachers haven’t put a stop to it is also telling, especially since it causes so many problems later on in the books with students attacking each other in the halls.
> 
> Ron is reacting here to his own past bias against Slytherin and those in his year. He didn’t trust them even when they were fighting alongside him during the Battle of Hogwarts, and then some of them died or were badly injured. He’s trying to make up for his own faults, but that can cause problems to if he doesn’t pay attention to this present.
> 
> So thanks to everyone for asking questions and pondering on things in their comments. I really enjoyed reading them. If I missed anything, go ahead and ask again. I’m trying to respond to every comment, but if it’s something that I think a lot of people are curious about, or have asked about, I might answer it in the Notes like this.
> 
> And just a quick apology for my late update. My godparents surprised my family with a visit last weekend. It was the first time either of them had ever been on a plane. So I spent the weekend hanging out with them. It should also be noted that I write professionally, so though I’m enjoying the break Sense of the Soul is offering me, I do have obligations with my original work. On the plus side, I’m going to try and keep a buffer so I can update chapters even when I’m busy meeting book deadlines. So here we are with chapter eleven. Thanks for enduring my long author’s note, and enjoy the chapter.

**Eleven**

**ERRORING EXPLOSIVELY**

* * *

 

“Harry Potter. Our new… celebrity.”

Ron had seriously considered casting a tripping jinx on Snape when he was stalking between the desks. Unfortunately, he knew he wouldn’t be able to remain anonymous. Although he had tried to learn Occlumency, Ron hadn’t been able to master it. Even Harry, who continued to try learning once he left Snape’s “lessons” behind him, hadn’t been able to master the skill. Of the three of them, only Hermione had managed. She had managed to help them learn some of the basics leading up to Occlumency, like meditation and a means of sorting their mind. It allowed them to better organize their thoughts and remember things better, but they still had no protection from outside mental influences.

He was grateful for the skills to help him remember, otherwise this endeavour would be far more difficult than it already promised to be, but that didn’t help him deal with Snape.

He had briefly entertained the thought that preparing Harry and Hermione especially for Snape would make class go smoother. He should have known better.

Ron sat quietly in his seat next to Neville as he listened to Snape ask Harry questions that weren’t even in this year’s Potions text. He grit his teeth to keep from saying something.

Despite what he had told Hermione, Harry, and Neville, Ron had no illusions that Snape was a bastard. He had been since that first Potions class all those years ago, and while he had proven himself to be on their side (or at least not on Voldemort’s side), he remained a bastard until he died. It was an irrational hope that them acting differently their first class would change Snape’s personality. It wasn’t them that was the problem.

After the war was over, they had time to really take stock of everything. They were each called in to Gringott’s a few times to deal with the reading of various Wills, and to Hogwarts a few times to help retrieve various items that shouldn’t be lost. Harry came back from one such meeting having dealt with Snape’s death and the three of them discussed his connection with both of Harry’s parents and how he had loved Lily. That didn’t make the way he had treated Harry any better. It just proved that not only did he hate James Potter, but he blamed Harry for his mother’s death.

Ron supposed, since he couldn’t go back and change _that_ , nothing would ever make the man stop being an arse.

It begged the question, though: what should be done with him?

True, Snape had helped to defend the school during the Battle of Hogwarts, saving numerous students with his fighting prowess, but did that balance out his manner of teaching? Potions was a necessary NEWT for those going into numerous fields of study, but the one that stuck out the most to Ron was being an Auror. During the war, there had been strain on the Aurors from fighting two masters. Some were loyal to Fudge and had gone on to hunt down Sirius and try and disprove the existence of Voldemort, while others had helped to fight against the madman. In the end, though, even if all of the Aurors had been on their side, their numbers were severely depleted _because_ students couldn’t get into NEWT Potions. If they’d had more of an Auror presence, the war might have gone more in their favor. At least, fewer people might have died.

Snape standing against Voldemort in the Battle of Hogwarts – one man – against an unknown number of potential Aurors on their side? It wasn’t a fight at all.

Ron sighed out a breath. So that was it, then.

How in Merlin’s name was he going to get rid of Snape?

“Weasley!”

Ron sat up straight in surprise, turning his attention to Snape at his shouted name. He met the cold black eyes and watched them narrow in quiet fury. He jerked his eyes away but it was too late. There was a vein in Snape’s temple that throbbed in quiet fury even while his teeth shown in a cold smile.

“Dumbledore’s Office. Now.”

Merlin’s sagging pants.

* * *

This was not how Ron had planned to spend his first Potions class. The Headmaster’s office looked far different from the last time he had seen it. Knick knacks whizzed and whirred around the heavy desk like a muggle child’s toy, and the walls were covered with shelves of books and a tall, ornate cupboard that he knew from Harry housed a pensieve. Frames of all different shapes and sizes covered the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with faces painted a hundred different ways. He recognized only one or two of them, the rest mysterious watchers with their eyes studying him closely. Nearby on a shelf sat the Sorting Hat, the old ratty thing studying him with folds in the fabric that worked as eyes.

“Any regrets, Mister Weasley?”

Ron was surprised the hat was speaking, though it occurred to him that of course it was able to speak out loud, it called out their Houses, after all. Still, he was accustomed to it speaking silently in his head.

“Only that I can’t hide my thoughts,” he said sourly. He should have known better, meeting Snape’s eyes, but having his name snapped like that had triggered the reaction to come to attention. He wondered what all the man had seen. Surely enough, if he was here, although he was surprised Snape had left him here alone without Dumbledore present.

The hat chuckled. “There are other ways to hide your thoughts besides Occlumency.”

Ron gave him an irritated look. “I thought you only looked at surface thoughts.” He was certain Hermione had said something about that once, having found a whole chapter on the Sorting Hat in _Hogwarts: A History_.

“You’re a special case.”

A flash of light behind him had Ron turning in time to see Fawkes settle on his perch. The bird cocked his head and looked at him with a shrewd gaze, as though asking what Ron thought he was doing. For a moment, he was tempted to defend himself and he opened his mouth to snap at the bird, before he let it close again. Fawkes settled more comfortably and seemed to give him a sad look.

“You weren’t there, okay?”

The phoenix trilled a song that was probably meant to be comforting. Harry had told them once that Fawkes’ singing always made him feel better, like things would work out in the end. Ron wished it worked the same way with him. He could use a little hope.

Ron didn’t notice the door behind the desk until it opened, allowing Albus Dumbledore to step into the room. Ron thought about his second year, when the Headmaster had stepped into the room where Snape had taken them, uttering a quiet “Why would you do this?” He desperately hoped this wouldn’t be a repeat of that.

Dumbledore didn’t have that disappointed look on his face. In fact, his blue eyes were twinkling merrily when he turned to him and Ron felt his shoulders relax. Fawkes trilled a soft note and Dumbledore gave the phoenix a fond look.

“Not an auspicious first class, Mister Weasley.”

“No, sir.”

Dumbledore waved at a chair in front of the desk while he sat in his own. “Lemon drop?”

Ron helped himself to the bowl of sour yellow candies sitting on the desk while Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

“Professor Snape told me something interesting happened in your Potions class this morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dumbledore didn’t say anything and Ron blanched. What was he supposed to say? _I was thinking about getting Snape fired and he read my mind?_ Yeah, that would go over really well, but surely Snape had already said that he caught Ron’s thoughts, so Dumbledore already knew what had happened. But how could he explain away his desire to get rid of Snape? And what if he had seen more than that? What if he had seen what Ron remembered from the war?

Oh. Oh, of course.

“I had a vision, sir.”

“Yes. Professor Snape informed me that you sent him the vision.”

Sent him the vision? His confusion must have shown on his face, for Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and took on a professorial air. “I spoke with your father a moment ago and he explained that he didn’t have any family who would be able to give advice concerning this gift of yours, so I wanted to explain some things that may be confusing you.”

_Everything_ , Ron thought weakly. _Everything is confusing me._

“Over the years, different seers have shared their visions with others in various ways. Some seers, like Professor Trelawney, the Divination professor, go into trances and share the knowledge of their visions as a prophecy, sacrificing their own knowledge of the vision in the process. Others, like the soothsayer who attempted to assist Julius Caesar, are aware of the visions that they have had peripherally and are able to share brief warnings against one thing or another. In your case, it seems that your visions manifest themselves as full-color moments, as though you are living them, or have lived them.” Ron nodded slowly. “Likewise, you are able to share them so that another person can view them just as you have. It was rather jarring for Professor Snape this morning, especially as I did not warn any of the professors of this possibility. I’m afraid I’m going to have to now.”

Ron swallowed. So all of the teachers would be told that he was a Seer? It was weird enough that Dumbledore thought that was true, but not all of his professors? Part of him wanted to scream. Another part, however, admitted that it was a good cover. If he had any slip-ups, they could be explained away by “a vision.” And if he wasn’t going to get into trouble for wanting Snape gone because of another supposed vision, all the better.

He wasn’t sure what to say, so he simply nodded that he understood.

“Good,” Dumbledore said. “I wanted to make you aware before I informed anyone else. I can’t promise that they won’t approach you about it, but I’m going to try and curb some of the… enthusiasm some of them might have.” Ron thought of Professor Trelawney and blanched. Right.

“Now, back to your sharing of your vision.” Dumbledore was frowning now. “As much as I had wanted to leave you to learning how to handle your gift on your own, that’s not going to be possible now. It’s too dangerous for you to be around others while unable to control your gift.”

It was like cold water had been dumped down his back. Ron felt his spine freeze at the thought. “You’re expelling me?”

Dumbledore’s eyes widened. “What? No, dear boy, no, of course not. It’s hardly your fault you have this gift.” Ron breathed a sigh of relief and slumped in his chair. “But I will need to set you up with someone who can help you control your gift.”

Ron’s shoulders tensed. “I… I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m afraid it’s the only choice if you wanted to stay at Hogwarts, Mister Weasley. I would be loathe to let you leave our halls without graduating. We have had generations of Weasleys come through those doors. The fact of the matter is that the gift of Sight is dangerous to those who do not have it. Your ability to share it by sending it directly into someone’s mind, as you did with Professor Snape this morning, could seriously injure someone.”

Ron felt his face reddening in anger. If only Snape could keep his stupid nose out of everyone’s business and stop going around reading people’s minds, this never would have been an issue. “Why?” he snapped furiously.

Rather than become angry as Ron probably deserved, Dumbledore spoke calmly. Kindly, even. “What was your vision about?”

Ron breathed evenly, trying to employ the meditation techniques Hermione had taught him in lieu of learning Occlumency. What was he even doing? He felt like things were spinning out of control and he’d only been at Hogwarts for a day. A single day! How could he hope to go through seven years of this? He’d planned on staying in the background, quietly shifting things so the future turned out better, and here he was in Dumbledore’s office on his first day of school, discussing his apparent ability to see the future! Which he was going to share with all of the professors! Which, of course, meant it would leak to the entire school population, because this was _Hogwarts_ and nothing stayed a secret here.

Why hadn’t they found a way for Hermione to come back? She’d have been so much better at this than he was. He didn’t know what he was doing or how to deal with this. Sure, it’d be fine to have someone come and help him learn to “control his gift,” up until the point they realized that he wasn’t a Seer. And then what? Did they demand he tell them about how he knew the things he knew? Pick apart his brain with Leglimency until he was a drooling mess locked up in St. Mungo’s? Or would they deem his knowledge too dangerous and simply Obliviate him? What then? They’d end up with the same dark, cold future that he had traveled back from.

It took him a moment to realize that Fawkes was sitting on the arm of his chair, crooning a song. He looked at the bird to find it watching him closely, black eyes more intelligent than they had any right to be.

He heard Dumbledore sigh. “Mister Weasley, I promise you that the person I choose to help you learn control will be someone I trust.”

_Someone like Snape?_ Ron wondered, because Dumbledore trusted him. “If I told you I didn’t have the Sight, would you believe me?” He’d never been so tempted to tell Dumbledore he was wrong. Never wanted so badly to explain everything and let someone else deal with it. Even during the war, when things have been hard and it’d been the three of them against what seemed the entire world, he hadn’t wanted to give up the responsibility to someone else so badly. Then again, at that point, he’d had two people helping him. He was in this one alone.

“No, Mister Weasley. I’m afraid that won’t work.”

Ron simply nodded, reaching a hand up to run it over Fawkes’ feathers. Things had been so much easier when he was just Harry Potter’s best friend. No one special. Just Ron.

“Who will it be?” he asked quietly, still running a hand down Fawkes’ back. The phoenix’s feathers were warm to the touch. They reminded Ron of sitting around a fire out the Burrow, roasting the marshmallows Hermione had introduced them too and laughing. It had been a brief moment of peace between attacks and he cherished the memory of it. That’s all it would ever be now. Just a memory.

“There are a few Seers I know that I will contact, but one in particular that I’m hoping will be willing to come to Hogwarts. Finding him could be a challenge, however, so it might be some time before I can have someone here. In the meantime.” He rose from his desk and walked over to one of the bookshelves along the wall, pulling a small book from where it was hidden between what looked like two language dictionaries. He turned and handed it to Ron. “Your schoolwork comes first, of course, but I think you’ll find this interesting.”

It was just small enough to fit in Ron’s back pocket, so that’s where he put it, careful not to knock Fawkes from where he was perched.

“Now, I better let you go so you can make it to your next class on time. I believe you have History of Magic and you wouldn’t want to miss it. The past is just as important as the future, after all.”

Fawkes trilled a final note and returned to his perch in a flurry of warm feathers. Ron stood up from the chair and turned to Dumbledore. “Sir, what about Sn—Professor Snape?”

“I’ve informed him of your gift and your lack of control, so there will be no repercussions for what happened in class.”

“No, I mean…”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Regardless of what you may have seen, I cannot release someone from my employ based on a vision.” Ron opened his mouth to argue but Dumbledore shook his head. “I cannot judge someone based on events that have not happened yet, or may never happen. Were that the way of things, there would be far fewer of us here today.” He turned and walked back behind his desk. “I will talk to you more when I have more information on a possible tutor for you. Have a good History of Magic class, Mister Weasley.”

Ron nodded, not surprised but still disappointed. “Thank you, sir.” He turned and left the office, heading toward Binns’ classroom, still wondering not only how he was going to get rid of Snape, but how he was going to handle the man until he did.

 

 


	12. Worrying Weasleys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fred and George confront Ron about what's bothering him. When that fails, they call for help.

**Twelve**

**WORRYING WEASLEYS**

* * *

 

History of Magic was as boring as it had ever been in Ron’s first life. The only reason he didn’t fall asleep was that he was so nervous, he couldn’t have dozed off even if he’d wanted to. Dumbledore was going to tell the professors that he was a Seer. That is was bogus didn’t mean anything. He’d seen first-hand the way the school treated Harry when they thought he was the Heir of Slytherin, never mind that it hadn’t been true.

Of course, being a Seer wasn’t as bad as being the Heir of Slytherin and sicking a basilisk on people, but still. He held back a groan. He had no idea what he was going to be dealing with when he woke up tomorrow morning. He was tempted to just go back to the dorm and hide now. What a disaster.

Class passed with him in a daze and when they left, he followed Harry and Hermione to the Great Hall like a sleepwalker. Only his snarling stomach brought him out of his daze and he inhaled three plates of food with a fervor that seemed to sicken Hermione, if her expression was anything to go by.

If he’d been paying attention at all, he might have noticed Fred and George whispering down the table, a quill in George’s hand as he scratched a note to another of their brother’s.

As it was, he didn’t even notice Hermione and Harry sharing worried looks, or the way Neville was poking at his food, until Harry finally broke the silence by asking, “Did you get into trouble?”

Ron looked up at his once-best-friend-but-not-yet. “Huh?”

“You got sent to the Headmaster’s office,” Harry said, shuffling in his seat like it hurt to sit down. “Did you get into trouble?”

Ron shook his head and looked back down at his food. “No. We just talked.”

The three of them shared a look, but before they could ask for any clarification, Ron asked, “How did class go?”

“Horrible,” Neville muttered.

“After he came back, Professor Snape was even worse than before,” Hermione said. “He yelled at Neville.

Neville shrugged despondently. “I did almost blow up the cauldron.”

“That’s not an excuse!” Hermione snapped. Ron blinked, looking at her. He didn’t remember his Hermione acting like that during the start of school. Then again, they hadn’t really been friends until after Halloween. That had been his fault.

“I wonder why he doesn’t like me,” Harry said thoughtfully.

Ron stared at him for a long minute, then lied. “I don’t know.”

He went back to eating, though without his prior enthusiasm. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever felt so alone.

* * *

 

After lunch, they had Charms, then Defense Against the Dark Arts. Flitwick fell off his stack of books like he had the first time he read out Harry’s name, and Hermione still managed to be the first to accomplish that day’s task. Ron couldn’t have said what it was. He sat next to Neville, idling flicking his wand in a mimicry of whatever they were supposed to be doing, his cheek resting on his hand. Class passed slowly but he hardly noticed any of it.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was useless. Ron wondered if Dumbledore knew that Voldemort was in the castle, possessing one of his teachers. He wondered if “having a vision” about that would get the Headmaster to do something about it. Maybe they’d have to wait until he nearly managed to kill Harry again. This Harry. Not the Harry Ron knew and remembered.

He missed his friends. He missed his _wife_. He knew coming back would be hard, but he hadn’t expected it to be so difficult being around different versions of the people that had become family to him. It’d been years since he’d seen Harry, but the Harry Potter he knew hadn’t been shy or quiet. He’d thrown himself into things based on what he thought was right or needed doing. He didn’t hesitate.

Ron missed his _friend_. And he knew that somehow he had changed something he hadn’t wanted to change. He had done something to make Harry hesitant and quiet, and he hated it. He hated this whole stupid thing.

* * *

 

_Ginny –_

_Hogwarts is huge! There are staircases that move by themselves and dump you off on the wrong floor and it’s really easy to get lost. We had class in the dungeons first thing this morning. It’s cold and I wish I could have worn my gloves._

_Snape is even worse than the twins said. I got sent to the headmaster’s office during class. Don’t worry, I’m not in trouble! We just talked. Try to keep Mum from sending me a Howler, okay? Breakfast is so supposed to be peaceful._

_I’ve made some friends who are in Gryffindor with me. Hermione is really smart and she picks up on spells quickly. Her parents are muggles so maybe Dad should make a list of questions for her. I bet she could answer all of them! Harry is quiet but he’s cool. He plays Chess with me even though I beat him every time. Neville is quiet, too, but he’s really smart when it comes to plants. I bet he could help Mum figure out how to tame that biting bush in the backyard_

“No, wait, that pops up next year.” Ron dropped his head to the table and groaned. He couldn’t even write a letter to his sister without his stupid future knowledge interfering. He yanked out his wand and sent a fire spell at the parchment in fury. The parchment went up in eager flames, as well as half the table.

“Hey! Hey!” someone yelled. There was a hurriedly-cast spell and a stream of water put out the fire. Ron was saved from being yelled at by the Head Boy when Fred and George grabbed him under the arms and pulled him up.

“We’ll handle it, Mark.”

“Come on, Ron.”

The two dragged him away from the table he had been sitting at and up the stairs. Fred nudged the door to their dorm room open with his foot and they dragged Ron into the room.

“Lee, we need some privacy,” Fred said. “And take Lucy with you.”

Lee looked up, then hurriedly grabbed a small box and hustled past them out the door. Fred shut it behind him and sent a locking spell at it while George led Ron over to a bed and forced him to sit down.

“Now let’s talk, Ron.”

“What about?” Ron asked tiredly.

“Well, that, actually,” George said.

“You’ve been here a day and you’re acting like a fifth year during OWLs.”

“I’m fine.” He moved to get up.

Fred shoved him back down. “You’re not.”

“And it’s _really_ obvious.”

Ron sighed in frustration and let himself fall back so he was staring at the ceiling and not looking at either of them. He thought there was some sort of textbook under his left shoulder. Uncomfortable.

“If it was just homesickness or you missed Gin, we could understand that, but you haven’t come to bug us, so we’re pretty sure you’re not homesick.”

“We’re pretty sure it has to do with this Sight business, which you’ve been pretty happy to ignore and pretend hasn’t been real.”

“Except it _is_ real.”

Ron felt tears prick his eyes. “No it’s not.”

“Ron…”

“It isn’t, it was just a convenient excuse.”

There was a moment of silence. “An excuse for what?”

“I can’t tell you.” The tears were rolling down the side of his face from his eyes. He wanted to tell them. He wanted someone to talk to, but he couldn’t.

Sitting on the bed, George looked at his twin sitting across from him on the nearby bed. Fred shook his head. George sighed. “Ron. The Sight is a real thing.”

“It’s a lie.”

“It isn’t.”

“You know, there’s a spell that could prove it one way or another,” Fred said.

Ron sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

George and Fred shared a look. “All right, Ron. If you don’t want to tell us, then we can’t make you. But we _are_ concerned.”

“And don’t forget our deal. You and Harry seem pretty good friends, so you won your favor. If you need help with something, it’s no questions asked.”

“Sure,” Ron said, sounding bored. “Can I go now?”

“Yep. Send Lee in when you see him.”

Ron grunted an affirmative and left the room. George ran his hands down his face. “Well. I’m officially concerned.”

“Yeah. What do you think he meant that the Seer bit was a lie for?”

“Dunno. I don’t get why he would think that. I mean, didn’t Mum tell him?”

“I’m not sure. She was on us all about not mentioning it. Maybe she didn’t want to talk to him about it either.”

Fred ran a hand through his hair. “Right. You want to go to the Owlery or should I?”

“You’ve got your Potions assignment to finish, I’ll go.” George grabbed the letter the two of them had written on lunch and headed out the door.

“Pick a fast owl.”

“Of course.” 

* * *

 

_Dear Bill,_

_Normally we wait until we have a few more pranks under our belt before we offer up a lovely summary of how they went, but things this year are running a little different._

_Besides, Ronnie’s got the best prank going we could ever think of, being able to see things before they happen._

_But Ron’s why we’re writing this letter. He’s got us a bit worried, actually._

_We know it’s only the first day, but he’s acting kind of funny._

_And not funny-haha. Funny-weird._

_We know Mum and Dad said he’d be different, but this seems extreme. We’re worried there’s something else going on._

_We’re going to confront him about it tonight, but if we don’t get anywhere, we’re sending this letter off to you straight away. You did tell us to watch out for him._

_Hope you have some ideas, brother._

_\- Gred & Forge_

* * *

 

It was a few days later when Bill was sitting at his desk, scratching calculations into a piece of parchment. He had just crossed out an incorrect set of calculations when the owl swooped into his tent and alighted on the back of his chair.

It was a black-feathered creature, sleek, with a large wingspan and a black beak. It stared at Bill with bright golden eyes.

“Hello, there,” he said, reaching over and stroking the owl as he took the letter from its leg. “You’re one I haven’t seen before.”

He noted that the owl didn’t leave as he unrolled the parchment. He sighed as he read Fred and George’s letter. The script was the same the whole way through, but he could hear the alterations as they switched speakers even in writing. He had hoped Ron would be okay, but this whole Sight business had him worried, especially as Ron had been acting differently after his fall.

He grabbed a blank piece of parchment and scribbled a quick note on it before folding it up and tying it to the owl’s leg. “Take that back to Hogwarts for me, sweetheart?” The owl gave a soft hoot. “Safe flight.”

As the owl swooped out of the tent, Bill threw his cloak on over his shoulders and stepped outside. His team lead was standing by the fire and Bill walked over to him “Josiah? How important is it for me to be here?”

The older man looked over at Bill. He had a warm mug of tea in his hand, as was usual, and his bright green eyes narrowed at Bill’s words. “You’re the best cursebreaker we have on this job, Weasley. Drop you and I’m left with a bunch of rookies and whatshisface.”

“It’s Gem, you codger,” a dark-haired woman called over from the other side of the fire. “Or whats _her_ face if you have to. Get your pronouns right, ya bastard.”

“Gem’s good at what she does, sir. We went to school together, both Hogwarts and after.”

“Weasley’s only my superior because he’s prettier, sir.”

Bill didn’t rise to the bait like he normally would. This was serious. He kept his eyes on his boss.

“It important, Weasley?”

“Yes, sir. My littlest brother might be in trouble. I need to go play big brother.”

Josiah’s eyes narrowed. “If he’s your littlest brother, then there a whole bunch of _big brothers_ for him to go get advice from.”

Bill smiled. “Yes, sir. But he doesn’t have to live with me.”

Josiah stared at him for a minute, then rolled his eyes. “Fine. How long will you be?”

“I’ll try for no longer than a week, but I really can’t promise anything. I don’t know what the problem is, yet.”

Josiah frowned at the fire. “We’ve got a few days of calculations and scouting the outside of this tomb before we can even think of moving inside. With luck, you’ll be back before we get too far.” He turned to Bill and his face softened. “Family first, though, Weasley. Don’t rush.”

Bill smiled. “No, sir. I won’t.” _Weasleys stick together, after all._

He turned and cast a spell to collapse his tent. The bigger-on-the-inside contraption folded up to the size of a matchbox and Bill stuffed it in his pocket.

“Give your mum a kiss from me, Weasley!” Gem shouted.

Bill waved a hand that he’d heard her, turned on his heel, and disappeared with a _crack_. Time to go play big brother.


	13. Brothering Bigly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secret of Ron being a Seer finally breaks through to the student body and some people don't take it well. Meanwhile, Bill arrives back in England and plays big brother to more than just Ron.

**Thirteen**

**BROTHERING BIGLY**

* * *

 

Another _crack_ announced Bill’s arrival outside the Burrow as the displaced air burst around his being. He grimaced. That was a poor job and he could have done with a little more finesse. Thank Merlin he hadn’t been apparating into Gringott’s. Gloryfang would have chewed him out for his poor focus.

The door in front of him opened and his mum stepped out to see who had arrived. “Bill!” she cried in delight, rushing over to hug him.

“Hello, Mum.”

“What a surprise! Are you hungry? I just made lunch for Ginny.”

“Lunch would be great, Mum.” He followed her into the house.

“Bill!” He braced himself as Ginny collided with him, octopus arms wrapping themselves around his neck. He laughed as he stood up, scooping her up with him and swinging her around. “It’s so nice to see you.”

“You saw me just a few months ago, Ginny.”

“Still nice.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “Nice to see you, too.”

He bent down so her feet touched the ground and she let go of his leg, giving him a funny look. “I thought you were at a tomb? Why are you home so early?”

“Hush, Ginny. Just be glad he’s home.”

Bill smiled tightly. “I asked Josiah for a couple days. I’m headed to Hogwarts tomorrow to talk to Ron.”

Molly looked up at there, concern filling her face. “What’s the matter with Ron? I haven’t heard anything.”

“Fred and George sent me a letter. I just got it a few minutes ago.”

“You apparated straight here?” Molly shrieked. “I thought you were in Africa? Bill, you can’t be apparating that far. It’s not _safe_.”

“I have a permit and an enhancement stone,” he said, and when she didn’t seem reassured in the least, he said, “Mum, please. I came so quickly because it’s important. Fred and George said Ron has been acting off.”

“Your brother is dealing with a lot right now.”

“Yes, and he doesn’t have anyone to talk to.”

Molly’s face reddened. “He does so–”

“Mum, I love you, but there is no way that Ron is going to talk to you or anyone else he has to live with over the summer. If I was in his position, I wouldn’t, either.” He watched his mother simmer in her fury, a temper she had passed on to a number of her children. “You’re right, he’s dealing with something at the moment, and we couldn’t actually offer up any family members who have had to deal with it themselves.”

“So _you’re_ going? You don’t know any more than I or your father.”

Bill didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared at his mother until she went silent out of lack of something to rail against. “I realize you’re angry, though I don’t quite understand why. You should be happy your children are looking out for each other, rather than angry they didn’t run to you.”

Molly’s face reddened further but she didn’t say anything, just turned and went back into the kitchen. A moment later, they could hear pots and pans being slammed.

Ginny winced and muttered. “She’s been like this all week.”

“She’s sad that her children are almost all gone to Hogwarts,” Bill said quietly. “Charlie and I have moved out and gotten our own lives. Percy will be doing the same in a few years. The last of her boys are at Hogwarts and you’re going next year. The house is already quiet. It’ll be even worse once you’re gone, too.” He bent and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry, Ginny. She’s not mad at you. She just wishes she could go back and keep you little forever.”

Ginny gave him a funny look. “How do you know that?”

Bill smiled. “Some things are consistent, no matter the culture or the century. Mums don’t want to let their kids go. You’ll be the same someday.”

Ginny gave him a quiet smile, then moved over to the table. Bill took the seat next to her and the two of them dug into the plate of sandwiches.

“What do you think’s wrong?” she asked between bites.

Bill pondered the question for a minute, chewing on a corned beef sandwich. They were his favorite. “I think there’s something Ron hasn’t told us. Maybe just a vision that he saw but didn’t share. But I think he’s been holding everything inside since this whole thing started and it’s finally getting to him.”

“Why now, though?”

Bill shrugged one shoulder. “He’s away from home, somewhere new. When something was bothering him before, he could go to his room and relax, or go sit by the pond, or fly. We’d all leave him alone if that’s what he wanted. Now, he’s at Hogwarts. He spends all day in classes surrounded by people. He shares a room with other boys. He shares a bathroom. He eats meals with the whole school. As a first year, he’s not allowed to have a broom, so he can’t go fly. The forest is off-limits. No matter where he goes, he can’t get a moment of privacy or peace. He can’t sit down anywhere and just _think_. He’s probably going out of his mind.”

Molly settled in the chair across from her daughter and quietly picked a sandwich from the pile. “You were like that when you were in school.”

Bill nodded, but Ginny looked over at her mum, surprised. “Really?”

“Oh yes. Bill was the quiet thinker of the family. Charlie jumps into things, but you would sit on it for as long as you could, days at a time, mulling over all the possibilities before you acted. It was infuriating. Used to drive your father and I crazy. When you went to Hogwarts, you started writing us letters about how everyone was always bothering you, asking you questions, never giving you a moment to yourself. I think it was a miracle you managed to make it to Halloween before you finally had enough.”

“What happened?”

Bill flushed with embarrassment. “I proved it actually _is_ possible to have an accidental magic episode even once you’re at Hogwarts. Basically cast an unintentional silencing spell on my dorm mates. Scared all five of us.” He chuckled. “It’s funny now, but it wasn’t then. Mum and Dad came in and had a meeting with McGonagall. Apparently, I wasn’t the first person to have an eruption like that.”

“Did they fix it?”

Bill smiled at her, but Molly said, “There was nothing to fix, dear. Bill’s just the kind of person who needs alone time to recharge. Your brother Charlie is the opposite. He thrives on being around people. Fred and George, too.”

“Oh. Percy’s like you,” Ginny said. “He likes to go up in his room for alone time.” She frowned and added thoughtfully, “I thought he was just being rude.”

“No.” Bill smiled softly. “Sometimes it comes off that way, though we don’t mean for it to. Being around a lot of people can be exhausting for me. After too long, I become grumpy and things go downhill from there. That’s part of the reason I bought my own tent for in the field. I don’t have to share with anyone, so I can sit in the quiet and recharge. I think Ron might be the same.”

“What am I?” Ginny asked eagerly.

Bill tilted his head to the side. “Hard to say. It’ll be easier to tell once you’re at Hogwarts and around other people, but you might be like Charlie and the twins. You recharge by being around others. Or maybe you’re a bit of both.” He shrugged. “We’ll know better next year.”

“But if you do need some quiet, make sure you tell someone, Ginny,” Molly said firmly. “Even if they think you’re being rude, you take care of yourself and tell them to leave you alone for a bit.”

Ginny smiled. “Okay, Mum.” She looked at Bill. “You didn’t get your own room at Hogwarts, though. How did you get time to recharge there?”

“You’d be amazed how many empty classrooms there are. Plus, I might have may a deal with Peeves.”

* * *

 

Ron was surprised. His being a Seer stayed a secret until Friday afternoon. He wasn’t sure who it was who had been talking about it in the during lunch, but word spread like Dragon Pox after that, and soon everyone was chattering about it. It only took until dinner for someone to work up the nerve to approach him about it. He didn’t even remember who it was. Some second or third year Hufflepuff who asked him if she would pass her OWLs. Ron left the Great Hall.

He made his way up to his dorm room wearily, feeling like all of his limbs were weighed down with lead. He stepped through the door to find Harry standing there, face white with what Ron immediately recognized as rage. He froze and his mind, well-trained by memory, tried to scream at his legs to _run_. He forced himself to stay still.

“Hi, Harry.”

“Is that why you were friends with me on the train?”

Ron’s eyes scanned the room, looking for answers. He saw five empty beds and question marks blinking in his vision like warning klaxons. “What do you mean?”

“Your... your stupid _visions_. Did you see me and see who I was and decide to be right there so you could meet _the great Harry Potter_?”

“No!” Ron shouted. “Yes! I mean.” He growled when Harry’s green eyes narrowed in that I’m-about-to-make-you-piss-yourself glare that usually preceded a spell no one his age should be able to master but he had managed through pure stubbornness. “I saw you, yes, and I knew who you were, but I didn’t want to friends with you because you were Harry Potter. I wanted to be friends with you because you’re Harry!”

“Right, because that makes so much difference!” He grit his teeth, looking like a caged tiger. “You said… you said you didn’t _care_.”

“I _don’t_ care!” Ron said. He realized peripherally that they were both screaming at the top of their lungs and anyone in the tower could probably hear them. Plus the window was open, and while Ron had inherited his mother’s lungs, Harry was no slouch when it came to shouting.

“But you do! The whole reason you were my friend is because I’m Harry Potter!”

“No, not—”

“Stop lying!”

“I’m not lying! You were my friend before and I wanted that again!”

Harry shook his head, too furious to speak. “Well, I don’t.” He brushed past Ron, storming out of the dormitory.

“Harry!”

“Sod off!” Harry shouted. A moment later, the portrait of the Fat Lady slammed shut. Ron didn’t even know she _could_ slam shut.

He sat down on his bed and just stared at the floor, until he heard people coming up the stairs. Curling up on his bed, he shut the curtains and pretended to be asleep so he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.

Why did he ever think this was a good idea?

* * *

The next morning, Bill left the Burrow with a much softer crack, apparating into Hogsmeade and stopping at a few of the shops to kill some time. He’d written a letter to McGonagall after lunch the day before and explained that he would be visiting to talk to his brothers, and that Ron was having some trouble. She’d fire-called him from Hogwarts to set up what time he would arrive and agreed that it would be best if Ron wasn’t subjected to more school gossip by having him arrive in the Great Hall during breakfast. Fred and George would be escorting their younger brother to the village and then go off and do their own thing while he and Bill talked.

While he waited, he ducked into the sweet shop and purchased a few things he couldn’t find in Egypt, and a few other favorites that were considerably cheaper here in Hogsmeade. When he caught sight of Fred wandering through the village, eyes scanning the area for another head of red hair, he had successfully stuffed his pockets with sugar quills, blood pops, and a chewy licorice candy that turned your teeth different colors. He’d give that last one to Gem and take a picture for the next time she pointed out how much his red hair made him stand out.

“Fred,” he called, as he stepped out of the shop.

“Oh, good.” Fred trotted over to him. “McGonagall said you’d be here this morning. Tell you what, scary thing being called into her office when you haven’t done anything.”

Bill smiled. “I’m sure she enjoyed that immensely.”

“Oh, she did. Lots of dramatic pauses and cat-ate-the-canary grins, I promise you.” He eyed Bill’s pockets, which looked no different than they ever did. “Fancy coat you have there with your expanding pockets.” He eyed the sweet shop behind Bill. “Stuffed fool of sugar quills?”

“Among other things.” Fred laughed. “How’s Ron?”

“Eh.” Fred’s face went from mirthful to concerned. He shrugged heavily. “He’s got even his friends worried. He acts like he’s in a daze half the time, and the rest he’s either angry as a wet cat or nearly crying. I’ve never seen him like this.” He ran a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic gesture of nerves. “I don’t know what to do, Bill.”

“I’ll talk to him.” He looked up as he spotted to specks of red coming their way.

“I ran ahead to find you,” Fred said unnecessarily.

Bill nodded. He slipped a hand in his pocket and pulled out a couple galleons. He handed them to Fred, who gave him a confused look. “I think a laugh or two might help him a bit,” he said, and nodded toward the joke shop. “Zonko’s is open.”

“You sure, Bill?” Fred and George were never too openly concerned about money, but they weren’t unaware of the troubles their family had. Living poor made them more conscious of their spending and they didn’t like taking money from their brothers, who worked hard for it.

“Just promise me you’ll prank McGonagall and then tell me about it in excruciating detail.”

“We’ll even write you the letter from detention,” Fred promised, pocketing the gold coins. 

George and Ron wandered up a few minutes later. Ron had his hands shoved in his pockets and his head ducked down. Bill didn’t think he had ever seen his brother’s shoulders so tense. He waved at Fred and George, who matched their steps and headed off to Zonko’s, glancing back briefly. Bill moved up alongside Ron but didn’t touch him, just walking beside his brother.

“How’s it going, Ron?”

Ron shrugged, not looking up from his shoes. The two kept walking, meandering slowly down the central lane of Hogsmeade. Bill let Ron lead and wondered only briefly where they were going. He hoped not the Hog’s Head.

“Fred and George are worried.”

Shrug.

“I guess your friends are worried, too. There’s a girl named Hermione, I think Fred said.”

Not a shrug this time. Bill was pretty sure Ron tensed up even more.

“I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me, Ron.”

“Can’t help anyway,” he muttered.

Bill was quiet for a bit. “All right.” He ignored Ron turning his head to look at him. “So tell me about these friends of yours. What’re they like?”

Ron kept staring at him but Bill didn’t look over, just waited quietly while the two of them kept walking. Finally, Ron turned his attention back to where he was going. “Hermione’s smart.” Bill saw his lips turn up in a smile. “Smart doesn’t cover it, really. She’s a genius. No matter what the spell is, she can learn it, and quickly. She loves to read. Spends most of her time in the library or the couch in the Common Room. Not the one next to the fire. The green one with the tea stains. She likes the smell.” Bill pretended not to notice the slightly sappy smile that didn’t really belong on the face of an eleven-year-old who’d known a girl for a week. “I think she has _Hogwarts: A History_ memorized. Probably all out text books, too. I should let her borrow next year’s…” He trailed off, disappearing into thought, and Bill let him be. The silence lingered for a while, but it was more comfortable than it had been, so Bill just waited, listening. Ron started talking again a few minutes later.

“Neville’s nice. He’s shy, though. Doesn’t think much of himself. Snape yelled at him in our first class and I think Neville’s terrified of him now. He shakes so hard during class he can’t stir the cauldron. He nearly blew up our potion yesterday.” He sighed. “He’s smart, though. He knows plants like… like he can talk to them. It’s strange. Sometimes I wonder if he’s part dryad or something. Hermione mentioned something about green thumbs but Neville’s thumbs are fine, so I don’t know what she meant.”

Bill smiled. Green thumbs. Muggles were funny.

“Harry’s… quiet.” He heard the frown in Ron’s voice before he even saw it on his face. “He doesn’t talk much. He’s just kind of… there. I… we met on the train. He’s my…” Ron swallowed. “He’s in Gryffindor me with me and Neville.” He shrugged.

There was silence for a long time. Ron didn’t offer up any more information.

Bill hesitated a long minute, debating. When he spoke, it was matter-of-fact. “Tell me something about them you know that hasn’t happened yet.”

For a long time, Ron didn’t say anything. Long enough that they walked past the Hog’s Head and beyond the edge of the village. Bill wondered if Ron _would_ answer.

“Harry’s the best in the school at Defense Against the Dark Arts. He could probably beat the seventh years.” He swallowed. “Hermione… Hermione likes to follow the rules. She trusts the teachers because they’re teachers. But only to a point.” He smiled a proud smile, still tinged with the memory of surprise. “She has a mean right hook.” His smile faded. A moment later, he slowed to a stop.

Bill stopped a second after, turning to face him. They were standing on a small hill, surrounded by large boulders. It was the furthest Bill had ever walked from Hogsmeade and he knew, somehow, there was something special about this place. Something that was important to Ron.

“Neville’s parents are in St. Mungo’s permanent spell damage ward. They were tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange. She’s in Azkaban, along with her husband.” He swallowed. “Along with Sirius Black.” He lifted his eyes to meet Bill’s and he looked wary and unsure, like a fawn trying to decide whether to move closer or run away. Bill didn’t move, just stared back, until he saw Ron’s hesitation turn into a back step.

“Ron, I’m willing to take a Wizard’s Oath to never speak of this to anyone.” He saw his brother’s mouth drop open. “I’ll swear to never speak of it again to anyone, even you, if that’s what you need. But please. Talk to me.”

The silence stretched on. Bill didn’t know how long in minutes, only that his legs started to cramp from standing on the hill, his back aching.

“I’m not a Seer.”

Bill studied his brother, who was looking both mulish and ashamed. Bill drew a breath. “Okay. I have to admit that learning about Neville’s parents precognitively would be a feat.” Ron nodded. “So… what is this, then?”

Ron clamped his teeth down on his bottom lip and looked at Bill uncertainly. “You mean it about the Oath?”

Bill drew his wand. “Just tell me the terms, Ron. I’ll say them.”

* * *

_“This is where Sirius Black will… did… hide in fourth year when we came to visit him. He’s innocent but no one believes it because Peter Pettigrew faked his death. He’s… alive. Somewhere. I know where, but… I can’t tell you that.”_

Bill poured himself another shot of whiskey from the bottle on the table and downed it. It burned the whole way down, assuring him that yes, he _was_ awake, and the world did indeed just get more complicated.

Ron was asleep in the bed by the window, a blanket draped over him and the remnants of tears drying on his face. Once Bill had got him started talking, his brother had suffered a complete breakdown. Not two months of suffering. More than two _years_ of it.

“Fuck Voldemort.” He reached for the bottle again but changed his mind. Being drunk wouldn’t help with this.

His brother _was_ a Seer. Bill knew that. The healer at St. Mungo’s had cast a spell that determined the state of someone’s magic. It revealed the Seer ability, as it had with others before Ron, among other abilities. Empathy. Post-cognition. Clairvoyance. A myriad of magics. So yes, Ron was a Seer, but he was also a twenty-something man in the body of an eleven-year-old.

Of course, that didn’t mean he had _physically_ lived that previous life. It was entirely possible that his mind had framed his visions like a lifetime to help his mind make sense of it. So it only appeared to Ron as though he had come back in time, when in fact it had simply been an elaborate vision.

Vision or former life… honestly, it didn’t matter. Whether he had mentally lived the life as a precognitive episode or lived it and mentally come back, it was the same. Ron had the memories of a life that never-was, that had become a future-that-could-be, and along with those memories came years of grief and loss, horror and guilt. And he’d been alone with these memories… visions, trying to struggle through life like normal, when he couldn’t even determine what normal was.

The fact that he had managed to survive three months without having a breakdown was a testament to how strong Ron was. Bill had once worked with a team to break into a temple in South America. One of the traps had been overlooked and a member of his team, a young man named Reynard, had died right in front of him. Bill had suffered nightmares for months afterward, and guilt long after that. Sometimes, the thought that he could have saved him – could have pulled him out of the way or noticed the trap in time – struck Bill at the oddest moments even now, years later. That was one person, and Bill had been the rookie, the new kid, on the team. He didn’t know how Ron could handle so many deaths when he and his friends were at the forefront of a whole war. And that in itself was a terrifying thought. Three teenagers leading a war because no one else would step up and do what needed doing.

_How far has the Wizarding World fallen if we let children fight our wars?_

Pride flared in Bill’s chest at the thought. His brother, a war hero. Ron would argue that. Would argue that there were any heroes of a war they hadn’t won. Oh, Voldemort had been killed, yes, but Bill knew what a pyrrhic victory was. He knew from reading about it. Ron knew from living it.

He looked over at his brother. Ron looked like he hadn’t been sleeping. Dark bags under his eyes, his hair tousled and unkempt, face pale. His breakdown had done nothing to help his appearance. Bill owed Fred and George an unlimited supply of dungbombs. Thank Merlin they had sent him an owl.

He’d explain the Seer thing to Ron at a later date. It wasn’t important now. For the moment, there were things that Ron knew about the future that needing fixing, and while he was an eleven-year-old stuck at Hogwarts, Bill was a full-fledged adult. Once Ron woke up, they would eat a late lunch and discuss the future, the things that needed changing, the things Bill could help with.

But the world could wait. For now, Ron needed to sleep, and no visions or nightmares or responsibilities were going to get in his way, because his big brother said so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Ginny are discussing the difference between Extroverts and Introverts in this chapter. Extroverts are your people who thrive on being around others. If they need to recharge from a long day, they'll go out and party with friends and feed off that energy to replenish theirs. Introverts are the opposite. When around groups of people (or even just one very exhausting person), they expel energy and recharge it by spending time alone, perhaps reading or taking a walk in the woods. 
> 
> Percy has always struck me an introvert. He spends much of his time hiding in his room, and with a family as boisterous as the Weasleys, I can understand this. Fred and George are obviously extroverts, and I could see Charlie going either way but decided to make him an extrovert. So he enjoys being around dragons _and_ people. 
> 
> I'm an introvert. I can be around large groups of people for a short period of time before I have to get some quiet time or risk an explosion. Introvert does not mean _quiet_ , it's just how we replenish the our energy and what we use that energy on. Consider it this way - introverts require a shield around themselves when around other people, and they use their energy to power that shield. Eventually, the energy runs out. 
> 
> I spend my lunch breaks sitting in my car in the parking lot at work, because those fifty minutes are my recharge time. Sometimes I take a ten minute nap. Sometimes I listen to music. Once I even wrote a chapter of this fic. Some of my coworkers sit in the lunch room and chat happily with each other, and I'm glad they're good friends who can recharge that way. I just can't. 
> 
> So there's your lesson for the day. Introverts and Extroverts and the differences between them. You can read a bit more about them [here](http://www.quietrev.com/why-introverts-and-extroverts-are-different-the-science/).
> 
> Also, the type of person that has a perfect balance between Extroversion and Introversion is called an Ambivert. 
> 
> So which one are you?


	14. Feeling Sympathetically

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione spends the day suffering Harry's temper and scouring the library. Harry thinks about how much easier it was to be hated at the Dursleys' than it is to be loved at Hogwarts. Ron wakes up in the Leaky Cauldron to memories of war councils and the Wizard's Oath his brother gave him, and it's all just more blood on his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning:** Brief suicidal ideation at one point, and then self-mutilation at another in the form of cutting one's wrist to perform an Oath - not in an actual suicide attempt. A quick forewarning so it doesn't blindside anyone. 
> 
> This fic is getting major kudos and comments and I love you all. I hope this chapter pleases.

**Fourteen**

**FEELING SYMPATHETICALLY**

* * *

 

Harry was giving her a headache.

Hermione had retreated from his temper to the green couch in the Common Room. It was quickly becoming her favorite. Few others liked to sit on it, either because it was _Slytherin-colored_ or because the stains were often “mistaken” for accidents like the less mature of the Gryffindors. But the couch smelled slightly musty, like the less-used areas of the library, and tea. It reminded her of her mother’s office at home, where Hermione had spent much of her time stretched out on her mother’s yoga mat, reading, while the dentist scheduled appointments over the phone. The office always smelled like tea, her mother rarely without a cup, and the walls were covered with shelves and shelves of books. It was Hermione’s very favorite place and she missed it terribly, just as she missed her parents terribly. The couch was a nice reprieve from homesickness.

It was also very obviously not the place other people wanted to be. While some of the Gryffindors had chosen to spend their Saturday away from the Tower, some had remained in the Common Room, chatting, studying, or playing games. Harry’s temper, which Hermione was learning was a terrible thing, had driven them off to various corners of the room and well away from her green tea-smelling sanctuary.

It wasn’t that he had yelled at them. He didn’t need to. Between his furious pacing and the deep-set glare on his normally placid face, they wanted to be anywhere but in his way. Hermione had tried reasoning with him earlier when he’d been ranting but he had no desire to listen. She had simply gone quiet and fetched a book, sitting on the couch and retreating into learning to ignore his temper. She kept an eye on him, not allowing herself to delve as deeply into thought as she normally would, just in case Neville came back in. The poor boy had bolted when Harry’s temper had first shown itself and Hermione wondered if he would even risk coming back to the Tower for curfew, the way Harry was acting. Poor Neville. He didn’t deserve to feel like a victim of this argument.

Not that she understood exactly what the argument had been about. Harry’s ranting hadn’t exactly made a lot of sense. She got that he was mad at Ron about him being a Seer and not saying anything, but she didn’t get why. Ron hadn’t told anyone else. It was obvious by the way he had abruptly left the Great Hall during dinner the night before that he hadn’t wanted anyone to know. Hermione had to admit she was a little disappointed because she hadn’t realized that seeing the future was a real magical talent, but from what she had read so far, it apparently wasn’t a very common one. So she could forgive Ron easily for not saying anything to her about it. She wished that Harry would, too.

She watched him as his furious pacing seemed to slow. Good. Wearing himself out and burning off the anger would hopefully mean he didn’t take his temper out on Neville or Ron, whenever he got back. Harry had been talking to Dean and not paying attention when Fred and George grabbed Ron from his dorm room and dragged him down the stairs. They’d sent Hermione a wink as they left and she hadn’t wanted to draw attention to them. She’d already listened to Harry rant a little that morning and if Fred and George were getting their brother out of the line of fire, she would do what she could to help. Distracting Harry by telling him that she was going to the library, and then leaving for said library, seemed a decent way to accomplish a little peace and quiet, and watch for anyone who planned on accosting Ron as the twins led him through Hogwarts. Harry hadn’t followed them, so that was a plus, and the one third year who’d tried to approach Ron was hit with a spell courtesy of one of the twins. Hermione didn’t know what it was, but having your boogers turn into bats and attack you was both horrifying and repulsive. She’d separated from them and gone to the library after that.

Finding books about divining the future was easy. Finding books about divining the future that didn’t sound like absolute rubbish was something else. Hermione spent a couple hours just scouring the same shelf, until she managed to find only two books that looked remotely credible. She skimmed through the one in the library. It turned out just to be a discussion of various prophecies that had been told over the years. It mentioned Nostradamus, a name even Muggles recognized, and hinted at rumors of a room in the mysterious Department of Mysteries that contained nothing but prophecies.

Hermione wasn’t sure she believed that. It sounded more like a tabloid than any sort of credible possibility, and she returned the book to the shelf, only checking out one. She’d debating staying in the library to read that one, too, but breakfast had ended and the library was starting to fill up. Ambient noise was swelling and she chose to escape for the Common Room.

Her eyes skimmed across the information on the pages. The introduction just spoke of different types of foresight gifts. There weren’t just Seers, with precognitive abilities – that is, the ability to see things before they happened. There were prophets, who specifically revealed the future through prophecy, and oracles, who were said to deliver advice and warnings directly from the gods themselves. There were lesser forms of Divination that didn’t rely on an inborn gift. Theriomancy was the study of different animals to determine omens of the future, like Ailuromancy, the study of cats, or Augury, the study of birds. It all seemed rather silly and filled with superstition to Hermione.

Astragalomancy was divination using small bones inscribed with numbers or letters. A small moving picture of someone casting a handful of the bones to the floor made Hermione think they might be better done using dice. Tarotology was obviously divining using Tarot Cards, which Hermione honestly thought was a game, much like the Ouija Board. She was pretty sure she’d seen them for sale in bookstores in London. Palmistry was something Hermione was familiar with from movies and carnivals, and prior to coming to Hogwarts, she thought it was all just silly nonsense. She read a little more until the book mentioned Rumpology, the study of warts, folds, and crevices on someone’s buttocks, complete with pictures. Blushing, she decided to move on to a new chapter and leave the introduction behind.

Just as she was about to delve into a chapter that focused specifically on Seers, Harry flopped onto the couch beside her. She pursed her lips as he huffed but didn’t say anything. She wasn’t going to be a target for his temper.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked quietly.

Hermione looked at him over the top of her book, her bare toes just an inch from him. They were cold and she considered tucking them under him for warmth, but decided against it.

“The only one who’s angry is you.” She looked back down at her book.

_A Seer (noun, someone who sees) is someone capable of seeing the future literally, as though they have or are living it. Similar to Clairvoyance, the Seer is less constrained, not limited to something they have touched or somewhere they have been._

“But it isn’t fair!”

Hermione huffed in irritation and looked back up at him. “No,” she said sharply, “it isn’t fair.”

For a moment, he looked pleased at her agreeing with him.

“It isn’t fair that you’re angry at Ron for something he clearly didn’t want anyone to know.”

Harry’s face turned petulant. “He should have told us.”

“Why? Why should he have?”

“Well, he knows all about us, doesn’t he?”

Hermione went very still. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry gave her a dirty look. “The only reason he wanted to be friends with me is because I’m Harry bloody Potter.”

“You must think really highly of yourself, but I suppose you have a reason to.” Her sharp tone clearly took him aback, as he stared at her in sudden confusion. “After all, you’re Harry Potter, great defeater of dark wizards.” She stood up from the couch and shoved her feet into her sneakers. She’d tied the laces too tight and they dug into her feet painfully, but she ignored them, turning to look at him. “Ron was really nice to us on the train and he hasn’t treated you any differently than anyone else, except that he clearly likes you. But he doesn’t say you’re Harry Potter, the great dark wizard slayer. He treats you like you’re his friend.” She could feel tears welling up in her eyes and it made her even more furious that she couldn’t control them. “I’ve never had a friend my own age before, so it’s nice that someone’s actually wanted to talk to me, instead of just pretending their interested because of who my parents are.” She grabbed her bag and threw it over her shoulder, nearly throwing herself off balance with its weight. “Maybe if you’d stop being a selfish jerk and let him talk instead of screaming at him like you did last night, he’d tell you why he didn’t say anything.”

He was staring at her, dumbfounded, and Hermione wished her hands weren’t full so she could hit with hard with one of the couch pillows. “I’m going to bed,” she said firmly, and turned to stomp away. “Goodnight!”

He didn’t say anything back to her and she didn’t look back. She climbed the stairs to her dorm and shut the door behind her, then face-planted on her bed and screamed into her pillow. She’d meant what she said about not having friends her own age before. She’d concerned both Ron and Harry one, and now she just might have ruined her friendship with Ron.

Sniffling, Hermione grabbed the book and curled up on her bed, opening it back up to the chapter about Seers. At least she could learn a little bit about what Ron could do. Maybe that would answer some of the questions she had, too.

_A Seer (noun, someone who sees) is someone capable of seeing the future literally, as though they have or are living it. Similar to Clairvoyance, the Seer is less constrained, not limited to something they have touched or somewhere they have been. Also unlike the Touch-Know, a colloquial term for Clairvoyents who rely on physical contact, Seers lack control of their foresight. The visions they experience come suddenly and can last seconds or minutes, often leaving them in a trance, incapable of moving on their own and unaware of their physical selves. The longest known Seer trance was held by Ignatius Avant, who fell into the trance on December 22 nd of 1594 and awoke January 21st of 1596, spouting a warning of the world’s destruction. _

_Notable for their oddity, Seers are often known for showing mental signs of advanced age, from a higher maturity to a startling number of stress conditions prominent in those thrice their senior. It is believed this is because Seers rarely arise when there is peace in the future, and the visions they experience are often filled with death, disease, or war. Rarely has it been recorded that a Seer was born who did not foresee some measure of destruction. There are numerous skeptics of this gift of foresight, however, as many professed Seers who have warned of some manner of doom had lived through the time of their proclaimed catastrophe without it ever occurring. Still others suggest this is because the Seer has so seen it, thereby changing Fate, or outright acted to prevent such destruction._

_This debate has been in effect since the rise of the first Seer, and will no doubt go on for centuries more._

Hermione let the book rest open on her chest as she stared at the ceiling. Seers arising specifically when they were needed and not during times of peace. That was a frightening thought. If true, that meant that something was coming that would adversely affect some part of the world, perhaps even her. Could that be why Ron hadn’t said anything? Did he hope no one would know so no one could ask? What could be that terrible?

Hermione thought of her history class and learning about the bombing of Hiroshima, the gas chambers were Jewish people were forced in to die. She felt her skin turn icy cold and she swallowed thickly.

_Nevermind_ , she thought. She knew exactly what could be so terrible.

Hermione closed the book and tucked it under her pillow, pulling the curtains closed around her. She dragged her blanket up over her as she curled into a ball and wondered if Ron’s brothers were helping him deal with the fallout from everyone learning he was a Seer. She hoped so.

_What a terrible burden._ She felt tears fill her eyes again, but these weren’t for herself or her anger, but for a friend. She buried her face in her pillow and let herself have a good cry. It helped not to keep it all inside.

* * *

Being Harry Potter had been easier at the Dursleys’ than it was at Hogwarts. Being hated, it seemed, was far easier than being loved.

_It’s not really love, though,_ Harry told himself, as he climbed the stairs to his dorm. _They don’t love you. They don’t even know you._

Magic. He’d known magic existed for little over a month and it still seemed like he’d wake up at any moment to Aunt Petunia’s rapping on his cupboard door. Magic had been that unattainable possibility, read about in books he sneaked home from the school library, tucked between worn textbooks and read secretly in the middle of the night by the yellowed light of a dying torch. _The Lost Years of Merlin_ , _Unicorns of Balinor_ , _Dragon’s Gold, Serpent’s Silver, Chimera’s Copper_ … he’d devoured them all, the worlds of magic a reprieve from a life being treated like a slave or something to be stepped on and smeared across the bottom of a shoe. But he’d learned early on that magic wasn’t something that would save him from his life, just as he learned that no lost member of his family would come and take him away. He was the unwanted child of a cruel world that should have taken him along with his parents.

Learning about… learning that his parents had been a witch and wizard, that he was a wizard

> **“You’re a wizard, Harry.”**

It was ridiculous. It was a cruel trick. It was a fantasy, something his mind had made up.

Maybe he’d finally snapped. Aunt Marge had always said he was a twisted thing. Maybe she meant in his head. Maybe there was something in him that was broken, wrong. Maybe something _he_ had done was the reason his parents weren’t alive anymore and he was. Maybe this was his punishment.

Aunt Petunia would argue that this was a punishment on them, not him.

He’d thought… learning he was a wizard, that he was going to go to a school to learn magic, far away from the Dursleys for most of the year. It had been a dream. Was probably still a dream, but one he didn’t want to wake up from. One he was just starting to believe he wouldn’t wake up from, that it was real, that he was here. He was here and Dudley wasn’t here to keep him from making friends, from being Just Harry and not Dudley’s cousin you didn’t go near if you wanted two functioning eyes and all your teeth.

And then the whole _Harry Potter_ thing came to light and he realized that even here, he couldn’t be Just Harry. These people he didn’t even know thought he was someone special. He’d heard so many things even on his walk with Hagrid through Diagon Alley. Nevermind the catastrophe of the Leaky Cauldron, he’d seen _books_ on him. Not just one or two, but a whole shelf of them. He’d been too flabbergasted to look at them then, and then later was appalled. Were people spying on him? Was he being watched the whole time he was at the Dursleys, getting smacked around and yelled at and locked in his cupboard? Had someone been watching all that and recording it for the whole world to read?

But the way people acted wasn’t the way they’d act around someone who was regularly pushed around by his relatives. They acted like he was some sort of celebrity, all because Voldemort somehow blew himself up trying to kill him and no one knew what happened. That hardly meant _he_ was the reason. He’d been a baby! If he was someone so special, some great super-powered wizard, there’s no way Uncle Vernon would have been able to toss him into his cupboard or Aunt Petunia swing a frying pan at his head on a regular basis. Aunt Marge’s dumb dog Ripper wouldn’t have chased him up a tree and kept him pinned there overnight, and Dudley’s favorite sport wouldn’t be called _Harry Hunting_.

So no, he wasn’t anyone special, but everyone seemed to think he was. Whatever they wrote about him in these books that he’d never heard about until he was _eleven_ , they weren’t about _him_. They were some sort of fantasy Harry Potter he didn’t even know, and they were all delusional.

Meeting Ron had been so nice, because he’d just said he was going to ignore that Harry was _The Harry Potter_ , and on the train, he’d treated him just like another person. Not like Harry was special or anything. He was Just Harry, and it was great. And then Hermione had come in and that was fine, it _was_ , but Harry realized that Ron had friends other than Harry. He had other people that he could hang out with and if he decided that he didn’t like Harry, then he could just let him go and it’d be okay, because he had other friends. He’d been a wizard for his _whole life_ , and Harry had only been a wizard for a month and five days and he had no idea what he was doing and he must look like an absolute idiot next to all these people who knew things about Harry Potter that _Harry Potter_ didn’t know.

And then it turns out that Ron is a Seer – a _Seer_! – and the whole bloody school knows before Harry does, like it’s some big joke, and he just _knows_ that Ron saw him there, in his head or whatever, and knew who he was and so found him on the train, because who doesn’t want to be friends with _The Harry Potter_? Except Harry wants friends who are friends with _Just Harry_ , not some fantasy version of a magical superhero he only learned about a month ago. He’s spent his whole life being unwanted and hated, and now he’s come to a place where he’s fawned over and loved, only it’s not _him_ they all want. It’s some warped funhouse mirror version of him and he hates it, hates this place, hates them all, and he’s never wanted to go home to Privet Drive so much in his life, but he’d give anything to be back in his cupboard, back listening to Aunt Petunia screech at him to get up and picking spiders off his socks, because at least there he knew how they felt about him. There weren’t any secrets there in the Dursley household. He knew exactly how they felt about him, and that was fine. It was. It was fine.

Harry threw himself down on his bed and felt the rage rush out of him like heat, leaving him cold and shivering, tears burning in his eyes, and he wouldn’t cry, he _wouldn’t_.

He sobbed into his pillow.

Oh, what the hell. Everyone else was lying. Why not him too?

He buried his head in his pillow and cried, because he was Just Harry and nobody cared.

* * *

Ron woke to the ambient sound of dinner-goers. The clinking of utensils against plates and conversation, sounds overlapping in a background noise similar to Headquarters, war councils over the dinner table, plans argued out between bites of whatever meal had been thrown together for those few minutes when there wasn’t some explosion or invasion to deal with. He blinked open his eyes, expecting to see Harry standing in the kitchen, cooking to relieve the tension in his shoulders. Maybe Ginny had taken a break from her forays into memory, settled at the table across from Hermione, who would be trying to draw her out of her silent prison, back into the here and now. It had been getting more and more difficult. Easier to poke and prod until they’d struck a nerve nowadays, call up her temper until she was a torrent of fury that raged back against them. Not a bonfire, which burned hot and long. A firecracker. One good explosion and then silence, back into the prison of her mind, leaving just an afterglow behind – a burning scar where he words had torn wounds that would never heal. She knew how to hit hard and it only got better the deeper she delved.

Ron sat up, expecting Headquarters, and instead found wooden walls of old but firm wood. Expected a phantom pain where his arm should have been and instead found two hands, smaller than he remembered, pushing him up from where he lay on a bed. He sat up fully, looked around, saw Bill, breathed deep.

Memory was a terrible thing, it turned out. Remembering and not remembering were twins versions of Hell. This wasn’t the first time he’d woken up forgetting that he’d come back, expecting to see someone who wasn’t there, or expecting a shadow of grief where someone still lived.

Bill was here, alive. He was eleven.

Back in time, remembering a past-that-wasn’t, a future that wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be. Not if he could help it. Not if _they_ —

Merlin, he’d told Bill, hadn’t he?

Not everything. He’d kept some things to himself. Scabbers was… dangerous. Too dangerous. But some things, little things that could be done now without changing too much. Bill could help with them. He’d promised to. He’d sworn an Oath.

_He sliced his wand across his wrist before Ron could stop him, could demand what he was doing, let the blood flow down his arm, a river of death that turned Ron’s veins to ice. A wand, tip glowing white, burying itself in blood until it burned crimson. His brother’s eyes matched to his, more serious than Ron had ever seen them, his face pale not with blood loss but determination. A side of him that he had never seen._

_“I, William Arthur Weasley, swear on my magic and my life, that I will hear all my brother, Ronald Bilius Weasley, speaks of his visions of the future, and that I shall speak no word of it to any person or creature or thing that could understand or take record of my words, beyond he himself, and around no person or creature or thing that could understand or take record of my words. I swear to uphold this oath, on penalty of this fatal wound and, surviving that, loss of my magic. So I have sworn, so mote it be.”_

_Weak with awe and horror, Ron murmured, “So mote it be.”_

_The flash of light from the Oath taking hold blinded him and he turned his head away, swearing. Unperturbed, Bill cast a cleaning spell on the floor. Ron considered hitting him._

He’d expected an Unbreakable Vow or, barring that, some generic Wizard’s Oath that called a small flash of light from the wand to declare its authenticity. Not for Bill to slit his fucking wrist open and bleed buckets all over the floor. He still felt sick when he thought of it.

He pulled himself from the bed, studying Bill. The older man was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the wall, hands in his lap, eyes closed. Ron didn’t think he was sleeping, though he’d never seen Bill meditate before. Then again, Bill had done a few things today he’d never expected from him. How much about his brother was he unaware of?

Stepping over to where he was sitting, Ron crouched down, gently touching Bill’s left arm. When he didn’t rouse, Ron turned the arm wrist up and studied the scar that was ran across the vein in his wrist. _A fatal wound._ No amount of healing would sew it together, Bill had said, if he ever broke his Oath. No magic would undo it.

Ron cursed his brother. Far be it for him to do something simple, instead he had to pull some ancient Wizard’s Oath he’d learned about in Egypt or Namibia or wherever he had been, digging up mummies and breaking old curses. Ron wanted reassurance. He didn’t want his brother’s blood on his hands! Did he already have enough blood on his hands?

_“This future will cease to exist,” Hermione said quietly, trying to look brave, though her eyes shone with terror. “Once you go back… this will all be gone.”_

Too much blood. He came back to save all those that had been lost, but what about those that had still been alive? They paid their lives for his chance to come back and make things even worse. Paid in blood they’d shed unwillingly, and now Ron was soaking in it. Drowning in it.

And now he’d pulled his brother down with him, into this writing sea of death.

_I can’t do this. I can’t._

He thought of chocolate-brown eyes blurred with tears and fear.

_Hermione, I wish you were here. You’d know what to do. And I’m so lost without you._


	15. Sorting Strategically

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill deals with his knowledge of what Ron tells him and sends out a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long break between posts. I injured myself a couple weeks ago and have been in enough pain that sitting up writing has been a struggle. I'm not fully healed yet but am much better now, so no worries.
> 
> This is a short chapter but I wanted to give you all something to read. I'll try to have another chapter up in a couple days.

**Fifteen**

**SORTING STRATEGICALLY**

* * *

 

The halls were made of golden stone, great blocks two feet in length and height stacked on top each other, reaching far beyond his sight. There was no ceiling. Above him lay a void of darkness, anything stretching beyond his line of sight being sucked into the Neverwas.

There used to be a ceiling, of course, but it stood at eight feet and made the halls seem so small and dark. Less a palace of history and more a prison of memory. He hadn’t liked that, and so he had torn the ceiling away, left the world to fade into the Is Not above his head. The stones of the walls glowed with their own inner light, a shining gold that illuminated the halls and couldn’t be consumed by the Neverwas because they never had been, but always were. They drove away all other shadows until the only ones that existed in the whole of this space were those above his head and those beneath his feet.

Bill walked with purpose down the corridor, his steps making no noise on the golden floor. He did not need echoes to tell him where sounds twisted in this place. He was the only one that ever came here.

He left the corridor, trotting down stone steps that shown with light, turning down another corridor, then taking a left when it branched, a right when it branched again, up a set of stairs to a dead end, then through a trap door only he knew the key to.

He took random turns through the labyrinth, but he knew where he was going.

The glowing light in the stones followed him, the sky above him an endless shadow sucking in anything that did not belong, and he knew that he was home.

His pace slowed as he reached a doorway, twin doors open, each an inch thick and made of solid gold. Carved into them were faces he knew better than he knew his own and he smiled to see them as he stepped through the doorway, into the throne room.

The large golden throne was intricately carved, covered in scenes of learning across ages. He saw children and adults both, faces he knew well and those he couldn’t remember names for. He saw a unicorn in one, a dragon in another, two friendly demons standing side-by-side, a princess, tiny, with a tiara balanced too large on her head. The one scene that had been there previously, of a boy dressed in armor upon the back of a rearing stallion, was gone. In its place sat a lion cub, large eyes looking lost and sad. His heart ached to see it, but he couldn’t deny it was true. His littlest brother was lost.

Bill climbed the dais and settled upon the throne. Far from hard, the seat was the most comfortable he had ever sat in, soft, enveloping, with a warming charm that spread up the back of the throne and immediately eased the aches in his shoulders from stress. He basked in the relief for a moment, knowing that when he opened his eyes, those knots would be back, digging into his shoulderblades.

There was only so much Occlumency could do.

He turned his attention to the large empty space in the room before him. Fit for holding court, the golden stones shone with not light, but memories, newly gathered. Bill watched as images of his brother’s face, caught in turmoil, swirled in front of him. After a moment, he reached forward, not with his hand but his mind, and righted the images, put them in sequence. A single long scene of memory. As he touched them with his mind, his mind’s hand, he heard Ron’s voice again.

_“I’m not going to tell you what happened to them. Merlin, Bill! Do you really want to know that?”_

His memories didn’t show his own face, but his voice echoed in the room around him. **_“No, I_** don’t ** _, but I’m not going to let you deal with this alone.”_** He remembered leaning forward, not touching Ron, but putting himself in close to the younger boy. **_“Tell me.”_**

_“I… I don’t.”_

**_“Ron.”_ **

He stared at the image of Ron, tears on his face, struggling between staying and running in a panic that Bill had never seen him in before. It wasn’t anything that Bill had ever wanted to see Ron suffer, and nothing he ever wanted his little brother to suffer again.

_“They’re all gone. They’re… I… Bill?”_

**_“It’s okay, Ron. Tell me.”_ **

Ron told him.

There was a part of him that hated Ron for telling him, and he hated that part of himself so much. He had demanded to know. He had _demanded_ Ron tell him, and it wasn’t Ron’s fault that it was terrible, that it was darker than any future Bill had imagined for his family. He had always expected about fifty red-headed nieces and nephews he would regale with tales of tomb raiding and cursebreaking. He hadn’t expected that there would be no nieces or nephews, that almost all of his family would perish, that he himself wouldn’t reach thirty.

_“We have to change it!”_  Ron sobbed, and his own comforting murmurs echoed behind Ron’s cries, his desperate pleas for a better future. _“We have to change it! I can’t… I can’t, Bill. I can’t lose everyone again. We have to!”_

_We have to change it._

Yes. Bill quite agreed.

* * *

 

The walk back to Hogwarts was done in silence. Despite the few hours he spent sleeping, Ron was still exhausted. He walked with laconic uncertainty, his balance unsure, and Bill made certain to keep close by him in case he stumbled. He wanted to wrap his little brother back in his arms. Wanted to bundle him up and take him home so their mother could fuss over him. Wanted to reverse time and make Ron forget, even for a little while, what the future had been.

But that wasn’t possible. Ron knew what was coming. Whether it was his mind returned from the future or a vision didn’t matter. Ron had seen what was coming and was acting on changing it, striking out to make a difference, and while Bill felt terrible that his eleven-year-old brother was so suffering, he also couldn’t be more proud.

He’d spent over an hour sorting the memories, locking them away in the labyrinth he had crafted when he learned Occlumency. He buried the knowledge, the images, the thoughts in secret places in a massive maze that one would have to be an incredibly powerful Leglimens to access. He had no intention of revealing this to anyone, but he needed to be there for Ron, for when he needed someone.

“I want you to stay in contact with me this year. Write me letters at least twice a month, keep me updated on things going on. Let me know if there’s something you feel needs done.” Ron wasn’t looking at him, so he grabbed the younger’s boy’s arm. “Ron. Did you hear me?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah. I’ll keep in contact.”

“I’m serious.” He didn’t miss Ron’s grimace. “Whatever you need, Ron.”

Ron hesitated for a moment, then opened his mouth. “Actually. There’s something I do need to prepare for.”

“What’s that?”

* * *

_Charlie –_

_How are things going on the preserve? Any new developments with the dragons? I recently overheard a conversation between two brothers about how it might be possible to train dragons as steeds. Seems a bit outlandish but you’re the resident expert._

_Speaking of, how’s your capacity at the preserve? Do you have room in case someone discovers a random baby dragon just lying around? I always wondered what happened in that instance._

_Your big brother, Bill_

Charlie stared at the letter in his hand for a long moment, easily reading through Bill’s normally-cryptic prose, to the suggestions beneath. Training dragons as steeds. Dragon riders. Bill was talking about _dragon riders._

“You’ve spent too long underground, Bill,” he muttered. “You’re going daft.”

He folded the letter up and tucked it away, pushing the thoughts aside as ridiculous and getting back to work.

But they didn’t leave him completely and he found himself focusing on them at odd moments, dreaming about sitting on the back of a Norwegian Ridgeback (a breed they didn’t have in his preserve), and even doodling pictures of prospective saddles when he wasn’t paying attention. No one rode dragons. _No one._ They were too wild. Savage. No one could tame them.

Well. No one could tame an adult. But what about young dragons?

What about eggs?

Charlie found himself thinking about the prospect, thinking about the clutch of eggs that would hatch in a few months. Thinking about _possibilities_.

Still, it was a mad idea. Completely bonkers.

He’d have to be crazy to try it.

Charlie figured he could see what would happen with the dragonlings once the eggs hatched, but it probably wouldn’t amount to anything. It was ridiculous. But he would test a theory. Science. Studying dragons. It was just being thorough.

And if anyone asked why he prepped a fresh area for a dragonling they didn’t have, he just said he was practicing for the horntail’s clutch. It’s not like they were going to get a new dragon anytime soon. Really. That would be ridiculous.

Totally. Ridiculous.


	16. Glimpsing Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron thinks avoiding his friends will help him get over them not being the same. He gets some advice from an unexpected source.

**Sixteen**

**GLIMPSING MEMORY**

* * *

 

Ron had hoped things with Harry would clear up after his discussion with Bill, but he should have expected they wouldn’t be so easy. Karma, he supposed. He had certainly never made it easy for Harry when the two of them were at odds because of his jealousy. Fourth year especially. That had been his biggest blunder in their friendship, with the exception of his final interactions with his best friend.

 _I should’ve done more._ Always. In every encounter. _I’ve been focusing on Hermione._

And he had been. Reading his textbooks front to back for this year, then delving into second year. Working on his homework every night after dinner to look studious. It helped to have it done and not be rushing the following morning, but he still fought against the desire to lay on the couch with _Quidditch Through the Ages_ or grab a Gryffindor he hadn’t beaten yet and coerce them into a game of Chess. But he focused on his homework because he knew how much Hermione would appreciate it. His Hermione. Not this Hermione. This Hermione didn’t know any different. The same as this Harry.

 _This me is all they know._ He felt the lump in his throat and tried to swallow it back into the recesses of his aching chest. He should be grateful. He had been given a chance to come back, to change things for the better. He could keep his family alive this time. He could save the school. He could save _Harry_. What did it matter if they weren’t the friends he knew before? Even if Harry hated him for the rest of his life, what did it matter? At least he would be alive. Ron would make sure of that.

_I shouldn’t be complaining. Maybe this is the price I have to pay for a second chance._

He thought of Hermione, his Hermione, tears on her face and fear in her eyes. He hadn’t understood it then, but seeing _this_ Hermione, he did now. His version of the woman he had fallen in love with, his _wife_ , had perished the moment the spell sent him back. With two wands in her hands, she had killed herself to give him a second chance.

Ron didn’t even notice he had started to cry. Thinking of his wife, what she must have been thinking in those moments before she brought the wands down, Ron knew he wouldn’t have been able to manage the same task himself. It had to be him that came back because of his family’s stupid gift for Sight, and it had to she who cast the spell, because she was Hermione. Somebody else might have gotten it wrong.

_Was it me, Hermione? Did I kill you?_

“Caput Draconis,” he murmured to the Fat Lady, ignoring her questioning if he was all right, and stepped through. He didn’t notice anything was outwardly wrong until silence fell upon the Common Room. Ron looked up.

Harry was frowning at him, eyebrows drawn down over Avada Kedavra green eyes, and Ron quickly looked away from him. He caught sight of his brothers, frozen while halfway standing, giving him twin nervous looks. Ha.

“Ron… are you okay?” Hermione asked gently.

He made the mistake of looking at her.

Bushy brown hair framed a face that still held the soft edges of a child, her chocolate brown eyes lacked the years of war and pain that had hardened the woman he knew. She was missing a small scar on the side of her face, a near miss from a piece of shrapnel that had threatened to remove her head, and would have, if not for her reflexes. He used to kiss that scar, his lips tracing from her chin to just under her ear, pressing his nose into hair that always smelled like ink and cardamom. He could remember the way she sighed beneath him, the rise of her body as he sucked on her earlobe, the way she exhaled, as though enraptured, each time he murmured how much he loved her in her ear.

Ron sucked in a gasp and didn’t miss the way Hermione’s eyes had widened.

He turned and bolted up the steps to the dormitory.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. How was he supposed to look at her? He loved her with all the fury of a man who knew what death was, what it could mean. Loved her with the mind of a man who understood the way his body would one day react to the sight of her. He knew every place to touch her to make her sigh, every spot that made her cry out his name. He knew her in a fashion that no one, no matter their age, should know a twelve-year-old.

 _You’re disgusting._ Ron threw himself into his four poster and slashed his wand across his bed, casting the most powerful locking spell he could. The curtains slammed together soundlessly, but didn’t move after. He knew no matter how hard someone pulled, they wouldn’t open, and that was just fine. It was just how he wanted it.

He thought of Harry, green eyes glaring at him across the Common Room.

No one would want to talk to him anyway.

* * *

 

_"Do you want to tell me what else is bothering you?"_

_"... no."_ _  
_

_"Ron. What is it?"_

_"It's... I know they're not the same, I do, but Harry isn't acting the way he's supposed to. He's quiet and shy and, and it's weird. It doesn't make sense. I must have done something. I must have changed something that made him different."  
_

_"People aren't just one way. Harry might have been different before, but you can't have repeated things exactly the same way. You said he's shy this time? How was he last time?"  
_

_"I don't know, just... more outgoing. More... spontaneous."  
_

_Bill nodded. "And how did you act last time?"  
_

_"Shy, I guess. I mean, I knew he was Harry Potter, but he was also my age and I thought we could be friends, but I wasn't sure, because..."  
_

_"Because he's Harry Potter." Ron nodded. "How did you act this time?"_

_"Well, I just told him I didn't care who he was. I'd even ignore it. He's my friend. Or, well, I want him to be."_

_"But you've been treating him the way you would treat the Harry you knew before, like you've been friends for years."_

_Ron didn't say anything, just grimaced._

_"You were really close, I'm guessing."_

_"Yeah, all three of us. Me, Harry, and Hermione."_

_Bill nodded. "And I'm guessing you balanced each other out. You said Hermione was a bookworm. She learns by reading and research."_

_Ron nodded. "She thought things through to a standstill. Harry was very..." He made a wavy motion with his hands. "Attack first, think never."_

_"And you?"_

_Ron shrugged. "I was just there." Bill smacked him on the back of the head. "Ow!"_

_"Don't put yourself down like that. You've never been "just there." You fought in a war together. What were your roles?"_

_"_ **_Ron, I need you determining where our forces are needed most. If you think Blaise needs to head south, tell him. You're the best at strategy. I trust your judgment."_ **

_"I was... the tactician, I guess. I planned raids based off the information Hermione gave me, using the strengths we all had."_

_Bill smirked. "So you were the bridge between Hermione's brains and Harry's sheer force?" Ron shrugged. "A cohesive team, and I'm sure you worked incredibly well together. But think of it this way. You met Harry before and you were shy, so he had to be more outgoing. You were unsure, so he took the lead. Yeah?" Ron nodded. "Now this time, you've seen all this through before. You know him already, so you're neither shy nor uncertain. You're the outgoing one. Now, in balance, Harry is the reverse of the roles. He's the uncertain one. You get what I'm saying?"_

_"I shouldn't've changed things."_

_"You couldn't have helped it. You changed things simply by knowing them. And that's okay."  
_

_"But Harry..."_

_"Harry's the same person that he was before. You're just seeing a different side of him. He was always the way he is now, he just hid it. We're not cardboard cut-outs, Ron." It was lucky he had Hermione as a friend or he wouldn't have known what Bill meant by cardboard. "There are many sides to each of us. You're just learning another one about your friend." Bill studied him a moment. "Knowing what you do about your friends has you acting differently. Is that why you suddenly wanted to read everything you could get your hands on?"_

_Ron shrugged. "Partly. I mean..." he blushed. "Hermione loves books and I thought... we weren't friends with her at first last time. I was really mean actually, and I wanted her to be our friend, so..." he shrugged. "But also reading so much would explain my being able to do the first year spells so easily. I mean, I did finish my NEWTS."  
_

_"You hadn't planned on telling anyone?" Ron shook his head and Bill took a deep breath. "Wow, okay. That... I'm glad that didn't work out like you wanted."  
_

_"But now the whole school knows!" Ron cried. "And Harry hates me because he thinks I only became friends with him because I had some stupid vision that told me he was Harry Potter. I tried to tell him I don't care he's famous. He's just Harry to me. He's my best mate. I don't want to lose that, but I think I might've."  
_

_"I doubt it. He's probably just scared. You told me he was raised by Muggles, so not only has he been told Magic is real, but as soon as he thinks he understands you have to wave your wand for this or that, he's hit with the knowledge that people can see the future, too. Wait til he learns there's such things as dementors. You grew up knowing this stuff, but for someone thrown into it, it can be terrifying."  
_

_"How do you know all this?"  
_

_Bill hesitated a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the blood pops he had bought earlier. "Do you know why I buy these?"  
_

_"I always kind of hoped I'd never find out, honestly."  
_

_Bill smiled. "They're not for me, Ron."  
_

_"Oh, thank Merlin."_

_Bill continued to smile. "One of the girls on my Curse breaking squad went to school with me. She was a Ravenclaw, smart as a whip. We had a thing going for a while. I actually thought I might marry her."  
_

_Ron's eyes had gone wide. He'd never heard this story. "What happened?"_

_"Thing with Ravenclaw is, sometimes they're so smart they're stupid, and they'll put their lives on the line in order to satiate their curiosity." He looked at the candy sadly. "She was investigating some rumors when she learned the hard way they were true. Got attacked by a vampire and turned."  
_

_Ron gasped. He immediately thought of Blaise, turned during the war, spending years struggling to come to terms with who and what he had become.  
_

_"She... well, it took her a while to get to a place where she felt okay. It didn't help that the Ministry kicked her out of Hogwarts. She finished up her schooling in Beauxbatons, but in the process, we lost contact. We met back up, of course, but things had changed. She's different now, and so am I." He tucked the blood pop back in his pocket._

_"Kerri was a muggleborn. When she started Hogwarts, she didn't know anything about magic. She was terrified, but she learned what she needed to in order to in order to be the best, to stop being afraid. And then she got bitten by a vampire, a creature even muggles know to fear despite thinking they're not real. So I get it. Harry's trying to learn to live in a world that's different from the one he's always known, but remember that he's not just having magic thrown at him, but the whole Boy-who-Lived nonsense too. I wouldn't be surprised if part of him wasn't thinking about just turning around and running away. I not sure I wouldn't, in his place."_

_“What can I do?”_

_“Give it time. Talk to him. It might take a few days for him to calm down, but you’ll get a chance, and when you do, explain what you really meant. He’s scared. Help him realize he doesn’t have to be with you.” He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “And if you need help,_ ask for it _. I’m always here for you, Ron. We Weasleys stick together.”_

Ron opened his eyes.

With a groan, he rolled over and wiped grit from his eyes. They were sore from crying, the skin around them tender, and he let his arms flop to the sides and just stared at the ceiling.

He didn’t want to get up. Getting up meant going down for breakfast and being stared at by the whole school, and he did not want to deal with that today.

Was this what it was like for Harry? Merlin, he’d thought after the war was bad, but that had nothing on Hogwarts.

_Now I know where Rita Skeeter learned to gossip._

He groaned. That was another thing he was going to have to deal with, and better sooner than later. If she got hold of the news that he was a supposed Seer, his life would be infinitely worse for it.

He could just out her as an illegal Animagus. He was sure she was one already. Although that would be pretty hypocritical of him, since he planned on learning the Animagus transformation himself. He’d taken the potion alongside Hermione to discover what their forms were. A terrier was nothing exceptional but having a secondary form to rely on would be useful. It certainly would have benefited them during the war.

Rubbing his eyes gently, Ron sat up. The first time he tried to pull his curtains apart, they wouldn’t budge, until he remembered the locking spell he had put on them. He grabbed his wand and sent the unlocking spell at them and pushed them aside.

The room was empty, all the curtains open displaying beds with twisted blankets thrown haphazardly about. It must have been later than Ron had thought. Everyone was probably down at breakfast.

Ron gathered up his clothes and went to get a shower. He changed in the bathroom, tossed his towel in the hamper, and grabbed his shoes. Once fully dressed, he trotted down the stairs and slipped out of the tower before anyone hanging out in the Common Room could stop him. He didn’t want to deal with anyone right now.

Instead of going to the Great Hall, he headed down further. At least coming back had left him the benefit of knowing the castle’s layout so well. He found the painting of the fruit with ease and tickled the pear. The door opened to a room full of busy house elves and the smell of breakfast.

“Students!” one of the house elves squeaked, and a group of them dashed over to the door. “What can we’s be doing for student?”

“Um, hi.” It still felt weird to come here and be the center of attention. It probably always would. “I was hoping I could get some breakfast. I won’t want to go to the Great Hall this morning.”

“Student wants food!” another house elf yelled to the others.

“Student wants food! Student wants food!” the house elves chanted. A plate piled high with food was passed from hand to hand like a mosh pit across the crowd of elves, placed on a table with silverware, and a stool was pushed up to the table.

“Tada!” one of the house elves cried, with wavy motions at the table. Then he hesitated, squinted at the table, and shouted “Drinkies!”

“I coming, I coming!” A house elf skidded into view, carrying a goblet that had spilled pumpkin juice all over his front. He placed the goblet on the table with a _thunk_. “Tada!”

The other house elf glared. “Tada?”

The house elf sniffed. “Juice is yummy.”

“Thanks, everyone,” Ron said, hoping to keep a fight from breaking out. He knew from Harry’s experience it was impossible to escape a determined house elf.

“Student eats!” The house elves collectively pushed him toward the table, chanting “Eat. Eat. Eat.”

Ron sat down and dug in to his breakfast. There was at least one consistency in this whole great big adventure. Hogwarts meals were brilliant.

* * *

 

Ron’s years fighting in a war trained him to get up early, to be awake before he was around people (there was no training regime quite like Moody hitting you in the arse with a stinging hex until you learned CONSTANT VIGILANCE), so getting up before the other boys wasn’t a trial. He got dressed quickly, gathered what books he needed, and left for breakfast in the kitchens.

He probably shouldn’t have been avoiding everyone, but it made things easier. Easier if he didn’t sit down in the same spot he always had, with the same friends he always had, but nothing else was the same. Those friends weren’t even the same, and he didn’t know if he could look at them and see them as they were now, look at Harry and not see the brother who had stood beside him in a war, look at Hermione and not see the woman he loved with all his heart.

Why was it easier to see Fred and not see a corpse than it was to look at Harry and not see the person he had become in that other life? They were both his brothers. Why was it different? Was it because there had been no hope for Fred, and now there was all the hope in the world? Harry had vanished. Oh, they’d believed he was most likely dead, but nothing was certain, and even if they had found him, Ron didn’t think they could have helped him. He had the chance to save Fred, to keep his family safe, to keep them all from dying. But he didn’t know if he could save Harry from what was coming. Maybe that was the worst thing. Voldemort, the prophecy, that stupid link between Harry and Voldemort… how could all of that still happen and Harry be okay at the end of it? How could Ron live this second life, get his second chance, but Harry still has to go through everything, suffer _everything_ , and Ron can’t do anything to help him?

How was he supposed to live his life, but he couldn’t let Harry just live his? How could he even look at Harry, knowing he was damning him a second time, just by reliving his life?

It wasn’t fair.

* * *

 

Ron got up before the other boys, left for breakfast in the kitchens, went to class and sat silently, or worked with Neville. The two spoke little, even when Ron sat next to him at lunch to avoid getting called out by the teachers. He ignored the looks Hermione would give him in classes, ignored Harry’s angry frown when he looked at him, ignored Fred and George whenever they looked his way, avoided them when he could.

The week passed that way, and when Saturday morning came, Ron made his way to the seventh floor and paced three times in front of a portrait of trolls learning to dance.

The door materialized as it had so many times before, and Ron stepped inside.

He almost ran back out the moment he saw the décor, but the door had shut behind him and he simply stared at it for a moment.

He would not be the least bit surprised if the twins had Hogwarts itself on their side.

Ron turned back around and stared at the room.

The floors were hardwood, old and well-worn, and the walls had a permanent stain of ash across them from the large fireplace. The space was big inside, tall enough for Ginny to have stood up straight inside, though Ron might have to duck even now. There were logs in the grate, partly burned and blackened, and he could smell woodsmoke even though there was no fire burning.

He stepped up to the fireplace, but his eyes were on the mantle above it. It was covered in pictures. Images of Harry from when he was younger, smiling and laughing, standing beside Ginny. There were pictures of he, Harry, and Hermione all standing together, grinning at each other. Pictures of Ron with his brothers, Hermione with her parents, Harry with Sirius and with Remus. Pictures of Ron and Hermione together, smiling, kissing. Scenes that Ron remembered. Happy, but tainted by darkness.

And there were other pictures. Ones that seemed familiar but were wrong.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville standing together, smiling.

Neville and Hermione bent over a boiling cauldron and a Potion’s text, clearing in deep discussion.

Ron, Harry, and Ginny, all in Gryffindor Quidditch uniforms, leaning on their brooms.

Harry and Ginny in dress robes, arms linked. Ron and Hermione in another photo, she in a dress he recognized.

A young Harry standing next to Sirius, Remus grinning at them from a doorway at their back.

Remus and Tonks holding hands.

Bill and Fleur, each holding a baby as they smiled at each other.

Percy and Ron, standing next to each other, the more serious of the two of them caught while laughing, Ron looking pleased with himself for whatever he had just said.

Charlie surrounded by ten little dragonlings, looking like a proud father.

Hermione. Holding a baby.

Ron staggered into a seated position on the floor, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Luna and Ginny, laughing together, no darkness marring either pair of eyes.

Ron and Harry, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera.

The twins standing together in front of their joke shop, both of them with white hair and wrinkles around their eyes from smiling too much.

His parents, white-haired and wrinkled, his mum smiling lovingly at her husband while he held up a rubber duck for a gaggle of grandchildren, clearly in mid-explanation.

Scenes of what should have been. Of what could have been. Of what _could be_.

Ron laughed.

His face wet with tears, his eyes red-rimmed and sore, he laughed.

He’d remembered so many of the bad things, so many of the terrible things that had hurt them all, torn them and their world apart that he had forgotten, somehow, that this wasn’t a repeat of his first life. He wasn’t here to suffer again all of the terrible things that had happened during his first life, or to struggle to maintain the lives of a few people here and there, to struggle through the war all over again.

He was here to change things. He had come back not to use his knowledge of an exact timeline, but his knowledge of the future, of all the terrible things that _could_ happen, that he would make sure _didn’t_ happen.

He was here to change things, and that meant more than preparing Charlie for a dragon and preparing his friends for Potions class. He was here to prepare the world for a war.

It was time he got started.


	17. Betraying Reluctantly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Flying Class gets rescheduled with Gryffindors and Ravenclaws together, Ron has to figure out how to get Harry on the Quidditch team without Draco Malfoy present to instigate it.

**Seventeen**

**BETRAYING RELUCTANTLY**

* * *

 

Flying class had been postponed due to weather, the first week for rain and the second for wind. Ron supposed that the teachers didn’t feel comfortable putting inexperienced students high in the air on a broom they could easily fall from when the weather _was_ playing nice. It surprised him that the first two classes had been canceled, since that hadn’t happened during his first life, but he supposed the weather was a force even time couldn’t control. Or maybe there were a high number of butterflies accumulating in France or something. Hadn’t Hermione said something once about a butterfly flapping its wings changing time? He couldn’t remember for certain.

He’d expected that they would try having class again on their regular Thursday, but when he went down to breakfast Monday morning (he had overslept after being up too late the night before and the other boys had already left the dorm), Dumbledore stood up in front of the podium to make an announcement.

“Due to concerns about harsh weather later in the week, Madam Hooch and your Heads of House have agreed to move your Flying class to this afternoon. Slytherin and Ravenclaw will have their class at four this afternoon. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff will have theirs at five.” He smiled benevolently down at them. Ron didn’t notice. “For some of you, this will be your first time taking to the air. I wish you well in your first foray off the ground.” He sat back down.

Ron ignored him, along with the students around him who were talking excitedly about finally getting to fly. This wasn’t right. They should be having class with the Slytherins, so Draco could steal Neville’s Remembrall. The whole event ended up with Harry on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Ron could care less whether Gryffindor won the House Cup. Knowing about a coming war and all the potential deaths changed one’s perspective quite a bit. But he knew that Quidditch and flying was something that gave Harry a break from the world. It had always calmed him and made him feel at ease, and with everything that was coming, he would need that. Ron couldn’t let him fail to get on the team because the _weather_ switched up who they were having class with. He needed to do something. He needed to fix this. He needed to make sure McGonagall saw Harry fly. He needed to make sure Harry actually _did_ fly.

How was he going to manage that?

Breakfast ended without him managing to eat anything and he followed the crowd of chattering Gryffindors and Slytherins to Potions.

Snape was a demon stalking past desks, scowling, sneering, and spitting insults about their poorly-constructed potions. Ron ignored him. He chopped the ingredients for his and Hermione’s potion. His silence didn’t hinder her. She could have easily crafted a Boil Cure potion on her own, so he let her put the ingredients in at the proper time and stir. His mind could wander while he chopped, diced, slivered, sliced, and squished ingredients. After seven years in this damnable class, he could at least do _that_ with ease.

His mind was focused on the problem of Flying class. What was he going to do? He could talk to Harry about it. He had planned to talk to him that morning and try and repair their friendship, but his sleeping in had ruined that plan. Now the only solution he could think of would keep he and Harry on the outs for… he didn’t know how long. Perhaps forever. Ron could conceivably become this life’s version of Draco Malfoy.

And didn’t that sound _wonderful_?

But he knew it was important for Harry to make the Quidditch team, and not just because he had already told Fred and George that Harry would make the team as a first year in exchange for another favor.

It took him through Potions, History of Magic, Lunch, and Charms before he finally gave in. He spent Defense Against the Dark Arts thinking of how they would react. How Harry would never talk to him, how Neville would be hurt, how Hermione would be disappointed. But Harry needed Quidditch. It was the crux of too many things. Not only his place for calm, but also the solution for his potential encounter with a dragon in fourth year. If not for him knowing his skill in flying, of having learned so much during Quidditch, could he ever have survived the First Task?

Ron breathed out slowly. In the end, it was a small price to pay for this second chance.

* * *

Ron winced at the sound of Neville hitting the ground. He couldn’t bring himself to look over at the boy, feeling guilty for not doing something to help him, to keep him from his embarrassing, probably frightening fall. And he was shortly going to make it worse.

He watched as Madam Hooch led Neville off to the Hospital Wing with a warning to keep their feet on the ground, but his eyes were already searching the grass for a glint of glass. He caught sight of the clear orb and stepped over, picking up the Remembrall. It bloomed red in his hand.

Ron laughed, and even he could tell it had an edge of hysteria to it. He had so many things to remember, it didn’t surprise him in the least that he was forgetting something. Seven years of classes, of facing evil Defense professors, various forms of Voldemort, giant spiders, Serpent Kings, Dementors, the entire fiasco with the TriWizard Cup, Fenrir Greyback, the list went on and on and _on._ He would have been surprised if the Remembrall _hadn’t_ turned red. He didn’t even bother to wonder what it was he was forgetting. It wasn’t worth the effort.  

Harry stepped forward, as Ron knew he would. They weren’t friends right now. They probably never would be, and Ron wasn’t to be trusted. “Give it to me, Ron. I’ll give it back to Neville at dinner.” _“You haven’t been sitting with us”_ wasn’t said, but they both heard it.

Ron forced his lips into a smirk that would have made Malfoy proud. He slung his leg over the school broom he’d still held and let it drift, carrying him in a lazy rise off the ground.

“Come and get it, Harry.” He gripped the shaft of his broom in a white-knuckled hand and pulled back. The broom shot into the air and only years of knowing how to handle a broom in his past life and the muscle memory of this body kept it from shooting between his legs and dropping him to the ground. He shot fifty feet into the air standing on the metal stirrups of the broom and only once he had levelled it out, drifting slowly in the sky, did he sit down on the cushioning charm to wait.

He could still hear Hermione shouting, at him or Harry, he didn’t know, but he didn’t have long to wait. Harry rocketed into the air with the speed of an angry Horntail. Waiting as he was, Ron witnessed the expression on Harry’s face as he levelled his own broom out across from Ron. The look of sheer delight, the shine of surprise in green eyes, made everything he was about to do worth it.  

He expected an angry demand for the Remembrall, so Harry’s confused “Ron, what is going on with you?” threw him for a moment. Harry was frowning again, but Ron noticed that it didn’t hold the anger it had before, just confusion.

Ron’s fingers tightened on the Remembrall, wishing he could promise Neville in his mind that it wouldn’t get broken, but too many things had changed already. And he wasn’t Draco Malfoy, so he didn’t know if he could get Harry to catch the Remembrall. He didn’t have it in him to antagonize his best… Harry more than he already had. Part of him just wanted to _tell him_ , to explain this and then everything, because it would be so much easier. _On Ron._ But he wasn’t going to place this whole coming war on Harry’s shoulders just to ease his own mind. He hadn’t come back to be the coward again. He’d come back to be a better friend, even if Harry never knew that’s what he was.

It was worth it.  

He held up the Remembrall and forced a challenging smile on his face. He couldn’t imagine Draco without a sneer, so he tried to think of Fred and George, teasing and worryingly holding a coming prank over someone’s head. He didn’t think he managed it quite right. Maybe he should try to mimic Peeves.

“Think you can catch this before it breaks?”

“What?”

Ron wanted to tell Harry to trust him, to just go with it, but he didn’t know if it would do any good. Instead he just upturned his hand and let the Remembrall roll off his palm. It plummeted, the heavy glass turning clear the moment it left his hand, and Ron watched it fall. He felt more than saw Harry move, the rush of wind as his former best friend twisted his broom on instinct and dove for the ground. He was watching the Remembrall, so he got to see it when Harry suddenly exploded into his vision, black robes tearing behind him, and plucked the clear glass ball from the air as easily as Ron might have picked a quill up from a desk. Harry pulled his broom up mere feet from the ground and levelled out with an ease some professional Quidditch players wouldn’t have managed. He dismounted to cheers.

Ron made his way groundside at a more sedate pace, landing just in time to hear McGonagall’s shrill “Mister Weasley! Mister Potter!” as she stormed from the castle, a hand over her heart. “My office! Now!”

Ron breathed a sigh. She had been watching, then. Good.

He clearly hadn’t been paying enough attention, because McGonagall grabbed his arm and pulled him, along with Harry, toward the castle. He didn’t look over at Harry. He didn’t need to. He could feel the glare perfectly well without having to see it.

That was fine. It was worth it.

* * *

McGonagall opened the door to her office and directed them both inside. “Potter.” She pointed at a chair. “Sit.”

Harry sat. McGonagall wasn’t someone you disobeyed, even when angry at your fellow Gryffindor.

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” She led Ron out of the room and into the Transfiguration classroom. It was empty, so either she didn’t have classes at the moment or she had dismissed everyone before coming down to the pitch.

Ron glanced out of the classroom window and got a perfect view of Madam Hooch standing on the ground, a dozen children on broomsticks flying around her with different levels of comfort. So she very well might have caught sight of them from the classroom. That… was probably an unpleasant shock. Harry’s style of flying – chaotic suicide, he’d heard it called once – was frightening even to those who expected it.

“Sit down, Mister Weasley.”

Ron turned back to look at McGonagall, who was giving him an exasperated look. He sheepishly sat down in the chair across from her. “And yes, to sate your curiosity,” not that Ron had asked anything aloud, “I was in the middle of teaching when I caught sight of Mister Potter’s aerial display.” She gave him a narrow-eyed glare very reminiscent of her Animagus form. It made Ron feel like a mouse. “And yours. Tell me, why is it that you seem to be antagonizing your classmates? Not just Mister Potter, but also Mister Longbottom. That was a gift he received from his grandmother, I believe?”

Ron shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Worth it or not, McGonagall always had a way to make you feel absolutely guilty for doing something, even if you believed in it. The incident with Norbert came to mind. He needed to get on that.

“Mister Weasley.”

Ron started, looking back at McGonagall to see her lips thinned in disappointment. He grimaced, and at her raised eyebrow, shrugged.

“A shrug is not an appropriate answer, Mister Weasley, I assure you.”

“Go deal with Harry first, then I’ll tell you.” Ron very nearly clamped his hands over his mouth in horror. He had _not_ meant to say that out loud.

McGonagall’s mouth actually dropped open in surprise at his demanding tone. He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t think even Fred and George would stoop to bossing her around. “Mister Weasley, I am sorely tempted to give both you and Mister Potter detention and be done with it.”

“No, please, don’t do that.” He snapped his mouth shut at her look and lowered his eyes.

He heard her sigh, then the sound of a chair dragging across the floor. She took a seat across from him. “The Headmaster explained your… predicament,” she said carefully. Ron snorted. “I understand that knowledge of the future is a heavy burden and I am sorry you’re forced to deal with this, but that does not excuse your acting out like this, especially when it puts your fellow students in danger.”

Ron couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. At her look, he assured her, “Harry was never in danger.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

He hesitated, but she looked expectant, and for a moment, he considered his options. “You’ve seen my brother Charlie fly, professor.” Of course she had. She had been Charlie’s Head of House, too, and he knew from his brothers that McGonagall was almost as Quidditch-mad as his dragon-loving brother. “He was the best flyer the school’s had in years.” She had her lips pursed, clearly not seeing that this was at all relevant to the current issue. “Did you ever see Charlie manage a dive like that?”

* * *

Harry stepped out of McGonagall’s office with a dazed expression on his face. The door closed behind him but he just stood in the hall for a moment, waiting to see if he would wake up from this dream. He was obviously asleep, probably in History of Magic, and any moment now, Hermione would kick him and wake him up.

He waited.

He had probably been standing there for ten minutes when the door behind him opened. “Mister Potter, what are you doing standing in the hall?”

Harry turned to look at the professor in embarrassment. “Waiting to wake up?”

He _was_ dreaming. He’d only seen McGonagall smile once and he’d _never_ heard her laugh. “Get to dinner, Mister Potter, before you miss it.”

“Yes, Professor.” Well, at least if this was a dream, he could spend it eating treacle tart.

* * *

“Where have you _been_?” Hermione demanded even before he’d sat down.

“McGonagall’s office,” he said, grabbing a platter of chicken and putting a few pieces on his place.

“Did you get detention?” Hermione sounded like she thought he very much deserved to get detention.

“No.” _No, I got put on the Quidditch team._ He was still half-waiting to wake up.

“What? What was McGonagall _thinking_?”

“Wow. Thanks, Hermione.”

She gave him a furious look. “Well, if you hadn’t disobeyed Madam Hooch and gone flying when she told us all _not to_!”

“I wouldn’t have had to if Ron hadn’t taken Neville’s Remembrall!”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but paused. “That’s true.” Her eyebrows drew down and she glared at him. “But you still shouldn’t have gone flying! Honestly, if Ron jumped off a bridge…”

Harry had tuned her out. It _was_ true. If he hadn’t gone flying when he shouldn’t have, it was likely he never would have gotten on the Quidditch team. McGonagall had told Oliver Wood that he had performed a fifty-foot dive and she didn’t think Charlie Weasley could have done it. Charlie, she had explained, was the previous Seeker for the Quidditch team, and one of the best she had ever seen, but Harry, apparently, was better. If McGonagall hadn’t seen him dive after the Remembrall, seen him catch it and pull up without crashing, would she had done anything other than throw him in detention?

“It was almost like Ron knew.” He said it before he’d actually thought it, the words cutting off whatever Hermione had been saying in her continued rant, and she stared at him.

Maybe he _had_ known. Maybe he’d seen it.

“Why didn’t he just say something?” Hermione asked, but Harry knew the answer. From the look on Hermione’s face, so did she. Harry had out-right attacked him when he’d found out Ron was a Seer, and they hadn’t spoken in days, over a week. Why would Ron say anything to him that involved something he had seen after that?

Harry looked down the table, but he didn’t see Ron. Then again, he thought, he hadn’t seen Ron at dinner all week. At least, he hadn’t been sitting with them. He was sure he’d been at lunch, though, hadn’t he?

“He’s been avoiding us,” Hermione said softly, realization and guilt clouding her voice.

Harry ducked his head, grimacing. Was this his fault?

“Didn’t you talk to him when McGonagall took you both from flying class?”

Harry shook his head, standing up from the table. “I need to go talk to him.”

“We need to,” Hermione corrected, following him to his feet.

They left for Gryffindor Tower with twin pairs of eyes following them.

* * *

Ron settled back onto his bed with a plate of sandwiches in one hand and a roll of parchment in another. There was a quill clutched between his teeth and he had balanced his inkwell on top of a sandwich that had a bite taken out of it.

He settled himself against the pillows he had piled against the top of the bed and set the plate beside him. He replaced the quill with another bite of sandwich and unrolled the parchment on his lap. He pulled the stopper from his inkwell and dipped the quill in, beginning to write.

He blew crumbs off the parchment between bites of his sandwich.

_Dear Charlie –_

_Things have been interesting at Hogwarts. Gryffindor got a new Seeker today in Harry Potter. I watched him perform a fifty-foot dive that would have given you trouble. It was beautiful. I wish you could have seen it. I’m pretty sure McGonagall had kittens when she saw._

_Please don’t tell her I said that. I just managed to get out of detention today with her. No big deal._

_So, how are the dragons doing? Do you have any eggs that will hatch soon? How about extra space for a randomly-appearing Norwegian Ridgeback?_

_Oh, by the way, do you know any werewolves?_

_Hope you’re having fun._

_Love,_

_Ron_

Ron laughed as he signed his name, wishing he could be there to see the look on Charlie’s face. Granted, his question about werewolves was a legitimate one, but Charlie wouldn’t be expecting it. Not like the baby dragon that Bill had already mentioned to him at Ron’s request.

He blew on the ink to dry it, brushed off a few sandwich crumbs, and rolled the parchment up to take to the Owlery later. He had just taken a large bite out of his third sandwich when the door to the dormitory opened and Harry and Hermione walked in. Ron froze at the sight of them.

The two of them looked at him, then his plate of sandwiches, and Ron didn’t expect to see the guilt that clouded their faces. He chewed slowly.

“Hey, Ron,” Harry greeted quietly. “We need to talk.”

That… didn’t sound good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a bit of a poll here for thoughts on Draco Malfoy. I see multiple ways for his character to go, but I'm curious on thoughts about him. Do you think he's doomed as a child of evil? Do you think there's potential for him to change? Do you think Ron's influence could make him a better character? Or would you prefer to keep an evil Draco in the story? :) Tell me your views, offer your suggestions/hopes for future chapters/years. I look forward to hearing them.


	18. Eternal Constants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Hermione confront Ron about the way they've been treating him for the past week. It doesn't go as well as they expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I had so much trouble writing this chapter until I finally decided to start it back further than the last chapter ended, so we get to see the rest of Ron's talk with McGonagall after the Remembrall Incident. You'll know when we catch up easily and are running post last chapter, so no worries there. 
> 
> I spent a great length of this chapter listening to _Yesterday_ , by The Beatles. Some other songs are _Good Grief,_ by Bastille and _Wings of a Butterfly,_ by HIM. Perhaps I'll create a full playlist for this fic. 
> 
> **WARNINGS** : This chapter contains a brief moment of suicidal ideation. It's not explicit or long, but so you're prepared. It also deals with symptoms of Depression. Nothing explicit or lengthy, but it does play a moment. We can all see from Ron's thought processes that he is having some severe issues with his jaunt through time. You all already picked up on this from previous chapters, because you're awesome. 
> 
> Thank you to all of you for reading, giving me kudos and sending me amazing comments. I hope this chapter fulfills all your dreams for the long-awaited confrontation between the trio. 
> 
> As always, hopes, comments, and suggestions are welcome.

**Eighteen**

**ETERNAL CONSTANTS**

* * *

 

_“Sometimes… sometimes I get the thought in my head to just leave. To just pack everything and walk away, leave it all behind, become someone new. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t, because it’s my responsibility, but sometimes, I just want to start running and never stop.”_

_Ron looked over at his best friend, and he thought about being mad. Actually thought about it, because it wasn’t happening inside him. His emotions weren’t turning to a hot fire of anger at his friend wanting to just disappear, to leave them behind, because he had seen that look in Harry’s eyes growing more and more frequent, until it lingered for hours, for days, this haunting self-hatred and a wish for an end –_ any _end, so long as he could just stop._

_Ron reached a hand out and gripped his best friend’s shoulder. He wished he could stop the war, wished he could erase Harry’s need to be at the center of it, wished he would erase this burden from his friend’s shoulders, but he hadn’t the power. He could only stand there and offer Harry what strength he had to share, even as he hated himself a little for not being able to do more._

* * *

 

Professor McGonagall walked back into the classroom and closed the door behind her. Ron was sitting in the chair where she had left him. He watched her quietly, unwilling to say something and bring forth her ire. She raised her eyebrow at him, clearly anticipating a comment.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet.

McGonagall sighed. She retook her seat across from him. “Should I assume you already know what it is I told him?”

Ron wanted to stay serious. The fact that she might have punished Harry rather than awarding him with the Seeker position worried him, but McGonagall’s longsuffering sigh and the look she was giving him were either simply _hilarious_ , or she was doing it on purpose.

He honestly had no idea which, but his lips twitched against his will and she leaned back in her chair imperiously. He wondered if she chose straight-backed chairs less for their correct posture and more because they looked like a throne from which she was holding Court and Judgment on her holdings.

“You know, Mister Weasley, you remind me of a young man who went to school here about the same time as your parents. I used to think only your brothers took after him, but I’m beginning to see that I’ll need to keep an eye on you, as well.”

Ron had a feeling she meant Fred and George and a certain group of pranksters they emulated. He couldn’t help grinning at her and he didn’t think he imagined the way her expression turned toward “What are you planning” levels – a look usually reserved for the twins.

“They wouldn’t happen to be known as the Marauders, would they, Professor?” He gave her his most innocent look.

McGonagall straightened in her chair and looked down her nose at him. “That will be all, Mister Weasley. Really, I ought to give you detention for that stunt you pulled today, and everything since.”

_All hail Queen McGonagall_ , he thought wryly.

Her eyebrow rose to unforeseen levels. Oh bloody hell. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“Indeed.” But there were wrinkles at the edges of her eyes and Ron thought she might be trying very hard not to smile. “I have decided to give Mister Potter a position on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.”

Ron really almost very-nearly cheered. He restrained himself with all the power he had, but it wasn’t enough to stop the grin on his face. “You made him Seeker!” He could _dance_ , he was so excited.

McGonagall sighed, and this time, he did see a small smile on her face. “Yes. We’ve had little luck finding someone these past few years who played the position with any true talent or joy. Most of them would have preferred Chaser, and there’s no getting either of your brothers away from a Beater’s bat.”

“You wouldn’t find anyone better than them, anyway.” Fred and George were able to communicate without even speaking. Sometimes, it seemed, without even looking at one another. It was uncanny but dead useful.

“Until today, I’d given up hope of finding anyone to take the position who had either true interest or talent.” Her eyes narrowed as she added in a mutter, “And I am tired of seeing Severus give me gloating looks come every game.”

Ron grinned. “Don’t worry, Professor. My brother Charlie was a very good Seeker, but his greatest love will always be dragons. Harry was born to ride a broom.”

McGonagall gave him a curious look. “Mister Weasley, you seem to know a great deal about Mister Potter, and term has only been going on for a few weeks.”

Ron shrugged under her cat-like stare. “I can’t help it, Professor. I just see him… my visions seem to focus on him, I mean. There’s some other things, but mostly it’s… Harry.” _And Hermione,_ he added in his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Hermione was in his visions, his memories, because of what she had been to their group, and what she had become to him. Their close friendship – the _Golden Trio_ , he had once heard them called – would be believable, but he could never admit to anyone that Hermione was his wife. An eleven year old claiming a twelve year old girl as the woman he would marry would send up red flags in everyone’s brain. Besides being all kinds of wrong, Ron knew there was a large possibility that that future was lost to him now. Hermione may never be his girlfriend, wife again, just as Harry might never be his best friend. Not on their ends, anyway. In his own heart, he knew he would never have another best friend, nor anyone else who sat in his heart the way that she ha, always would.

McGonagall was studying him in much the way a cat might study a bird. “Have you wondered why your focus is on him?”

_“I have to be the one to defeat him.”_

_“What?” Hermione asked, as she and Ron turned to face him._

_Harry was sitting on the couch, white-faced, his hands clenched into fists around the cloth of his trousers where they rested on his legs._

_“I have to kill him.” He looked up at them then and his eyes were wet with tears. “Dumbledore told me, after Sirius… after… I have to kill Voldemort. It’s him or me. One of us dies, so I’m either dead, or I’m a murderer.”_

“No,” Ron said, and it came out strangled. His fingers dug into the fabric of his robes and he looked down to collect himself, blinking away eyes he hadn’t realized were wet. He had to swallow a few times before he was able to speak. “No, I… I know why.” He wiped his eyes quickly. He didn’t like thinking about that day. It had been a bad one.

He looked up in surprise when he felt a hand on his shoulder. McGonagall had moved to crouch next to him, her long fingers gently squeezing his shoulder. Ron knew that McGonagall cared. He had always known that, ever since second year, when they had used visiting Hermione in the hospital wing as an excuse to avoid getting in trouble, and McGonagall hadn’t been able to hide the tears in her eyes. It had been a moment for them that they hadn’t realized the significance of until years later, during Umbridge’s terrifying reign over the school. The professors were human, too, just trying to struggle through the insanity that was a world still haunted by Voldemort. McGonagall had always cared, but he had never been on the receiving end of that care in such a direct, unavoidable way. He looked up into her face and his surprise must have shown on his own, because she gave him a soft smile.

“The Headmaster informed us of your gift so that we could help you. As your Head of House, I am here to help you during the seven years you’ll spend at Hogwarts.” Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. “Even if you were not in my House, Mister Weasley, I would offer you an ear. We are _all_ here to help you.”

“I can’t tell you what I’ve seen,” he warned her, worried that they planned for that to be a condition on their help. He couldn’t risk someone mucking up his plans to get rid of Voldemort.

McGonagall removed her hand from his shoulder and for a moment, he thought she was going to stand up and leave him and he felt his heart break at the thought. In his past life, those seven years had had many constants. A number of them were violent, painful constants, but a few were ones he felt he could always count on to be there and on his side. One of them was Minerva McGonagall.

A moment later, her arm slid around his shoulders in a gentle half-hug and he let his head fall against her shoulder in relief and sniffled.

His nose was stuffed up and he had resorted to breathing through his mouth. He wished terribly that he had a handkerchief on hand because he could feel it beginning to run. He didn’t want to wipe his nose on his sleeve, because yes, he might look eleven, but he was almost thirty, thank you. McGonagall had been dealing with emotional children for decades, however, and he watched idly as she transfigured a bit of dust in a handkerchief. It was red with gold balls that looked just a little like snitches and he heard himself huff a laugh as he took it from her.

He wiped his nose and McGonagall pulled back from him, giving him a moment.

“I won’t deny there are some professors who wished to know what your visions would have to say about the future, and I’m afraid that your gift has peaked the interest of our Divination professor.” Ron snorted before he could help himself and saw McGonagall give him a wry smile. “However, the headmaster made it very clear that no one was to ask. We are here for you to offer support, to listen if you wish to speak – whether that is about your visions or anything else. It is the same thing we offer to all other students who walk through our door. The difference is only what you may have to tell us.”

Ron thought about them trying to tell her about Quirrell in his first run of first year and thought that, were that to repeat itself, just her openness to the… unusualness of his personal magic would make it go differently. But there was still a problem he had to worry about.

“What about… what if someone doesn’t follow that rule?”

The openness of her expression was replaced with the imperious one that all students were familiar with. “If someone tries to make you tell them about your visions, you may feel free to refuse. If they decide to punish you, I will make sure that the punishment is with me. Perhaps we’ll have tea and biscuits and you can tell me about your week.”

Ron could only stare at her for a moment. She was serious. She was really serious. She wanted to… to spend time with him.

He shook that thought off; he could focus on that later. He had a bigger problem right now.

“What if someone has a way that they can take the… visions, without asking?” She was giving him a look he suspected was meant to be unreadable, even confused, but this wasn’t his first year knowing her and seven years was sufficient time to learn someone’s expressions. “Sn- Professor Snape is a Leglimens.”

Her eyes widened in surprise and she opened her mouth, surely to ask how he knew that, before realization struck her and she just looked resigned at his knowledge. “I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself.” She raised an eyebrow at him and he nodded in agreement. She sighed. “Very well. You needn’t be concerned about Professor Snape. Using Leglimens against a student is against the law, not to mention against the rules as a professor. He wouldn’t dare.” She pursed her lips at Ron’s skeptical look, and added, “Even so, the headmaster tells me that your particular gift prevents those with skill in the mind arts from pulling things from your mind.”

“Really?” Ron asked, his eyes wide.

Professor McGonagall nodded. “You’ll have to ask the headmaster for more details, but as I understand it, those who are able to read the minds of others cannot do so with those who have foresight capabilities. At best, they are simply prevented from doing so. At worst, it can cause them harm.” She gave him a somewhat stern look. “I hope you will keep that in mind, in future.”

Ron nodded. “Yes, Professor.”

Her expression softened. “Very well. I do believe I’ve kept you quite long enough. I’m sure Gryffindor will be celebrating having a Seeker, despite my telling them it is to remain quiet for the time being.”

Ron stood up from his seat, following McGonagall as she stood to walk him to the door.

“I meant what I said, Mister Weasley. If you need something, my door is always open to you. The same is with the other professors, if you would prefer to speak to someone other than your Head of House.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

She offered him a smile as he stepped out of the door. For just a moment, he thought about warning her about Halloween. He really did. But honestly, as much as he would appreciate her assistance, he didn’t think her knowing something was going to happen would be any help. It could tip Quirrell off and have him go for the Stone sooner, or it could change things irreparably. His only help was his knowledge of the future as it had been. If it was changed too much, than his coming back, his living all of those years, would be of no help at all.

So instead he offered McGonagall a grateful smile for her offer, and headed back to Gryffindor Tower.

Ron realized, halfway back to the tower, that everyone was still at dinner. He had a moment to be regretful that he had kept McGonagall from her own meal and he thought briefly of going to the Great Hall. There were so many thoughts churning through his head, so many things to think on, that he couldn’t stomach the idea of dealing with the stares on top of it. Instead, he make a detour to the kitchens and picked up some sandwiches from the eager house elves, who also provided him with some desserts and a flask of pumpkin juice.

When he got back to Gryffindor Tower, he noted a few stragglers who hadn’t made their way to dinner - sixth and seventh years who, exhausted from the year already, were sprawled out in the Common Room. One seventh year was sobbing into the shoulder of another, describing the evils of NEWTS and homework. Ron didn’t particularly appreciate the reminder of what he would get to deal with in six years and hurried up the stairs to his dorm room.

He made himself feel better by writing a short but enigmatic letter to Charlie. It was entirely possible that his brother would know a werewolf, and he might be able to reach out to Lupin if that was the case. If not, he at least might be able to get in contact with the werewolf population and make a little headway there. A great deal of Voldemort’s power lie in his ability to manipulate people, but the rest of the Wizarding World didn’t help, turning their backs or their ire on those who were different. Casting out werewolves for an illness, turning away half-humans for who their parents were, with the same level of disgust many showed to Muggle-borns. There was so much bigotry in the Wizarding World, especially in Britain, that it really wasn’t a surprise that Voldemort had been able to turn so many other races against the witches and wizards who had outcast them. Being a half-blood himself, he would have learned of the bigotry early, and from what they had learned from both Harry and Ginny, Voldemort had been a manipulative little bastard even as a prepubescent Tom Riddle.

Ron wasn’t proud of his own prejudice from the past. In some ways, he had been as bad as the Malfoys. He still remembered clearly the way he had reacted when he had learned Lupin was a werewolf. He had never apologized for his reaction and it had come back to him later, after Lupin had died, in a swarm of regret. He had never grown close to the man, not like Harry and Hermione had, and he often wondered if his reaction in the Shrieking Shack had stuck with the man. He hoped not, but he was almost certain Lupin had left a distance between them, thinking it was what Ron had wanted.

It would be different this time. Lupin would know he had friends. Even if… even if he had to approach him as Ron Weasley, younger brother to epic pranksters, Fred and George, and not as Ron Weasley, Harry’s best friend.

He had to loosen his grip on Charlie’s letter when he accidentally tore the parchment, rolling it up with more force than necessary. Tying a string around it to hold it rolled up, he took a massive bite of his sandwich to give himself something to focus on other than the past.

He turned when he heard the door open behind him, and he felt the way his stomach dropped at the sight of Harry and Hermione, looking at him as though they had every intention of having a conversation, as evidenced by Harry’s quiet, “Hey, Ron. We need to talk.”

Ron didn’t want to talk.

He especially didn’t want to talk _now_.

He had too much running through his head, too many thoughts and fears and regrets. Too many things he wished he had done, planned to do, but knew wouldn’t go the right way, because he’d planned to do it as Harry’s best friend, as the Ron Weasley that he was and had been. He didn’t know how to be Ron without Harry. Didn't want to learn. 

He took longer than necessary, chewing the bite of sandwich, but Harry and Hermione didn’t look impatient or as though they had any intention of leaving. Finally, letting his shoulders drop, he swallowed and sat down on the edge of his bed, waiting for the final verdict. Was this it, then? Was this the moment when Harry told him to shove off for good?

For a moment, he considered how close he was to the window, how easy it would be to be done with this stupid failure of a rewrite of their lives. What afterlife waited for him at the end of this catastrophe, would his Hermione be there? Or was she lost to him even there?

Despair filled him at the thought, that he had lost _everything_ with a foolish hope of making the world better.

_You’re not doing this for_ you _,_ he reminded himself sharply. He forced himself to look up at them, his one-time friends, his never-would-be lover. _You’re doing it for them._ He could keep doing it, then. For them, Ron could take on Voldemort himself.

For them.

“Ron?”

He blinked, coming out of his thoughts to find Hermione giving him a concerned look. She was twisting the fabric of her robes in her hands in a gesture of nervousness that he _knew_ and his heart ached to see it. He faltered in how he should react to her, in what he should say. He couldn’t parse, for a moment, which Hermione he was talking to, and he felt his eyes suddenly flush with tears and he looked away from her to hide it.

“What, er…” He cleared his throat. “What do you want to talk about?”

He scratched at the corner of his eye to disguise the sweep of his sleeve across his eyes. He wasn’t sure how subtle he managed to be. Hermione was so far from an idiot it was laughable and Harry had always been the most observant of the three of them.

He heard the bed creak across from him – Harry’s bed – and knew his best… knew Harry had sat down. There was a long silence and Ron refused to look at either of them.

He entertained the hope that they would give up and leave and he could have just a little longer, at least one more day, where they didn’t cast him out of their lives completely. Let him dream for one more night of something better.

Then Harry cleared his throat and Ron closed his eyes in grief at what was coming.

“You… how often do you see things?”

It was so surprising a question that Ron looked at him.

Harry didn’t look angry like he had expected, or righteous in that way he looked when he was turning people down or away – the look he had given Malfoy on that very first train ride. _“I think I can tell the right sort for myself, thanks.”_ The look he had given Lockhart after he’d disarmed the fraud with his favored spell, drawing this new fact into his ongoing plan to rescue Ron’s little sister. That look wasn’t present. If anything, Harry was holding his emotions back, keeping them in check – something he’d always had a skill in when he needed to very carefully not give anything away. Another gift from a life with those bastards he was forced to call family.

Ron opened his mouth, then had to think exactly what it was Harry had asked, as much as his mind had wandered. How often did he see things? The memories were a constant blur through his mind, a continuous knowledge of what-was-what-could-be-what-must-not-be. He swallowed thickly, his voice coming out weak as he answered. “All the time.”

Harry frowned just slightly, a look of confusion, a question not spoken, but that was fine. Hermione was always filled with all the questions the two of them could never ask.

“All the time? You mean you have visions _everyday_?”

He didn’t know how to answer her question to match up with the _visions_ , this stupid belief that he was a _Seer_ , so he decided not to try. Wasn’t the truth better? He was so tired of lying. Only just beginning this rewrite of their lives and he was already _so tired_.

“It’s… there was a vision I had… before school. When it started. When I first started… seeing things. It was…” _Bad? Terrible? So horrifying I had to_ come back in time _. You were dead. You were all dead except for my wife,_ my wife, Hermione _, but even we couldn’t keep going on. We wouldn’t be able to live much longer in that world and I had to stop it. I had to come back. I HAD TO._ “I keep seeing it. Remembering it.” _I can’t stop remembering it._ “All the time.” _Every night. Every time I close my eyes. Sometimes I breathe and I can taste ashes on my tongue like I’m still there. Sometimes I hear eulogies in my head because I’ve been to so many funerals. I’m here and my family is here and you are here and school is still going on like normal, but in my head, everyone is dead. My family is dead. My best friend is probably dead. My wife is dying. My brothers are dead. My sister is insane. My heart is still beating but I’m dead, too, and don’t you understand. Don’t you understand, I had to come back to save you, but I’m screwing it all up. I’m going to screw it all up. I need your help but you’re not even here, you’re not you, and I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO._

He didn’t know how he wasn’t screaming. Didn’t know how he was shrieking in his mind but no sound was echoing out for the rest of the world to hear. He felt like his soul was screaming loud enough that the whole of Hogwarts should be able to hear how absolutely ridiculous it all was that they thought he, Ron Weasley, fuck-up, could come back in time and ever hope to not make things worse.

It took him more time than it should have to realize that Hermione had moved. She was sitting next to him on his bed and had his hand gripped in one of hers. He blinked and looked down at their hands, confused.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice quiet. “The future.”

He lifted his eyes to her face. She couldn’t know. Hermione was smart, the smartest witch of her age, but she couldn’t know _that_.

His confusion clearly showed on his face, or something did, because she said, “I picked up a book from the library after we found out you were a Seer.”

He felt his lips quirk up in a grin. It hurt his face. “Typical Hermione,” he murmured.

She squeezed his hand. “You know us. You saw us.”

Her expression was earnest, but different from Hermione seeking answers and ignoring the collateral damage, hunting knowledge for the sake of knowledge. She was closer now to the Hermione he’d known in their third year than the one he remembered from first. Better at handling people and their emotions along with her books and knowledge. Had they done that? Had just being her friend from the start changed so much?

How he must have hurt her that first run through, not giving a care for months. How his antagonistic attitude and cruel words must have cut her, if just having a friend changed so much.

Perhaps it was better they would never be. He didn’t deserve her.

“I lived a life,” he said, and his voice sounded weary to his own ears. “I lived through…”

“A war,” she finished for him. He just looked at her. “The book I read. It said Seers tend to be born in times when they’re needed. When they have something they can change.” She was using her paraphrasing voice and he felt a soft smile curl over his lips to hear it. “You saw something terrible, didn’t you? Something that’s coming?”

He exhaled a long breath and nodded, the smile slipping from his face. “I can’t tell you about it,” he murmured, and he couldn’t even bring forth the apologetic tone he was hoping for. He was too tired.

“We could change things,” Harry said, sounded affronted at the idea of being left in the dark.

Ron just sighed again and closed his eyes. He felt something against his forehead, smelled ink, the mustiness of the Hogwarts library, and tea, and let himself relax. The shoulder was too small, the way she held herself too unused to the weight of his head, but she smelled like his Hermione and he needed that. For just a moment, he needed her.

“I know,” he murmured into the silence. “I’m trying, but I can’t move too quickly or things will go wrong and I won’t know what’s happening. I need to be careful I don’t change things too much. If I… if something happens, I don’t…” He choked off the sentence with a drawn-in gasp, felt the tears fill his eyes again, and clenched them tight to keep them from falling. Merlin, he was so tired.

He felt a hand against the back of his neck as fingers squeezed the tight muscles there in comfort. He breathed in ink and books and tea and felt the rumble of the voice between them as Hermione spoke.

“You know us, then, from what you’ve seen? Harry and I?” He nodded against her shoulder. “Were we close?”

He huffed out a laugh at the ridiculousness of the question, even though he _knew_ they couldn’t have known, but Hermione asking if they were close was just the dumbest thing he could have ever heard come out of her mouth. Even dumber than her support of bloody Lockhart.

“You were everything,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the last word.

Fingers brushed through his hair and he felt himself shuddering under the touch, tears running down his cheeks, and he couldn’t stop them. His only consolation was that his nose filled quickly and he couldn’t smell tea and ink and books any longer, couldn’t mistake her for _his_ Hermione. He could only shudder under her caring hand and cry against her shoulder and wish that he had his family back.

* * *

When Ron opened his eyes, the dorm was empty.

He blinked slowly as he looked around. Sunshine burned warm through the room and something about that made him feel as though he were forgetting something, but he felt muzzy. He stared at the window for a moment, eyes only catching blue sky and wisps of white clouds. There was a lazy breeze carrying the smell of autumn into the room and Ron lay his head back on his arms as he watched the clouds drift slowly across the sky.

* * *

A hand brushing through his hair carried him back from sleep and he opened his eyes to a concerned look in a long-familiar face. He drifted on gentle words that coaxed him up, into the bathroom. He relieved himself, washed himself, dressed in soft pajamas he vaguely thought were unfamiliar, but he couldn’t care through his exhaustion. He ate something but tastes didn’t linger and only the ease of his stomach’s complaints kept it from being a wasted gesture. His head found his pillow again and someone pulled the blankets over him.

He drifted away.

* * *

People were talking, soft voices on the edge of his awareness. He thought about being concerned, about crawling toward consciousness, but the voices were familiar even if he couldn’t parse the words and he was so tired. Instead, he let himself linger halfway between sleep and wakefulness, letting the sound of well-loved voices cover him. It eased an ache he hadn’t realized was there to hear them and he felt himself relax into the softness beneath him, felt a hand brush his hair back, and sighed softly.

The softness rose up like a tide beneath him and the voices were carried away on the wind.

* * *

It was dark when he opened his eyes next. His bed curtains were open and he could hear soft breathing, the familiar snores of boys he had known for seven years and forever. His eyes drifted to the window where the light from the moon was shining. It took him a moment to place the strange shadow he saw, the shape not making sense, until the owl’s wings shifted and he recognized the white gleam of Hedwig’s feathers in the moonlight. Harry was sitting on the deep sill, staring out the window into the night. As Ron’s eyes adjusted, he could see how Hedwig was resting on his knee, her gaze following his.

Swallowing what felt like cotton, Ron slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. There was a muzziness in his head that made him feel off and his whole body was so tired he considered just lying back down and going to sleep. There was a pressure in his bladder that told him he’d be up again in another hour anyway, so he carefully pushed the blankets back and sat up.

He heard the creak of wood and looked up, one hair rubbing gunk out of his eyes to see Harry had stood up from the windowsill. The silhouette hesitated for a moment, one hand raised with Hedwig shifting her wings, before he turned and let the owl slip out of the window into the night. Ron rubbed his hand up and down his face, trying to wake up his skin, and when he lowered his hands, Harry had made his way back to his bed. He sat down across from Ron. Ron blinked blearily at him but didn’t think Harry could see any better than he could in the dark.

“Are you doing okay?”

Ron buried a yawn in his arm. “Mm… yeah, I’m okay. Why?”

There was a long silence that suggested his question was a ridiculous one. “You’ve been… sick the past couple days.”

Ron blinked. He had? He tried to think back, to place where he had been these last few days. All he could remember were brief moments of being aware of being tired, of concerned faces and soft voices. He frowned as he tried to parse the moments, but it was like his life was made of photographs and didn’t tell him more than a couple minutes of what his life had been.

“What happened?” he asked.

He saw Harry shrug one shoulder in obvious discomfort. “Hermione and I were talking to you and you fell asleep and… you were sick the next couple days.”

_Sick_ probably wasn’t an accurate word, but okay, he’d take that for now and bother Hermione for details later.

“Okay. Well… I feel better, so I guess I’m okay now.”

Harry made a noncommittal sound and then the silence took over again. Ron was about to get up and go to the loo like he had planned when Harry shifted again and spoke.

“I’m sorry, you know. About… before. When I found out you were a Seer.” He shuffled on the bed, uncomfortable with the conversation. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You didn’t have to tell me.”

Ron stared at the shadow across from him, certain that he was still asleep and dreaming. “You were… you thought I was manipulating you. It’s… I didn’t like it, but I understand why you were worried about it.” And he did. Harry had been manipulated by so many people, and even if he didn’t know about more than three of them, _Ron knew_. “I mean, I’d really like it to never happen again, but… I get it.”

Harry nodded. “It won’t. Happen again, I mean.” He scratched his head. “I just wanted to tell you. I’m sorry. And you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. You’re my friend.”

“I am?” Ron choked out before he could stop himself, and Merlin, was he crying _again_?

“Yeah,” Harry said, with a tone that suggested it was _obvious_. “Of course you are. My best friend.” There was a moment of hesitation, then a quiet, “If you wanna be, I mean.”

“Of course I do. I… you’re my best friend, too.”

The night carried itself forward to morning, as it always does, because some things, no matter how many times they’re lived, are a constant.


	19. Doubting Prophecies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite McGonagall's promise of help, Ron can't find a professor to warn about the troll. Then he stumbles on the last professor he wanted to see this time around. 
> 
> Meanwhile, meet Daphne Greengrass. She doesn't like Halloween.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the nature of some of the content in this chapter, I would like to point out that not everything I write is something I agree with, and I mean no offense to any culture or religion in my writing. Daphne Greengrass's opinions on Halloween pull heavily from the history and theology of Pagan culture and its subversion by Christianity and Catholicism. Please don't bite. This is just a story and I'm enjoying myself. I certainly hope you are, too.

**Nineteen**

**DOUBTING PROPHECIES**

* * *

Ron was fairly certain he had his eleven year old body to thank for the swift fix to their relationship. Before coming back, he and Hermione had discussed the problem of his fully adult mind being put into the body of an adolescent. As they’d expected him to be sent into his third year, it would have been right around the time that puberty struck him. He’d been embarrassed to discuss it with her, but Hermione had forced the issue. They loved each other deeply and Ron would be going back in time to a Hermione he had be in love with even then (not that he’d realized that at the time), with his adult mind and a child’s control over their hormones.

Instead, he’d ended up back in his eleven-year-old body, before hormones raised their capricious heads and things were simpler. It was that simplicity – the easiness of children to make friends and forgive – that mended he and Harry so easily, he was sure. His adult mind burned with doubt still, but he could see easily that Harry had meant what he said. Ron was his friend and neither he nor Hermione were acting as though that were a lie.

Not that Ron would ever think that Harry would do such a thing. He wasn’t the sort to carry a lie like that. Wasn’t the sort to purposely harm another person. That was Voldemort’s modus operandi, and Harry’s unwillingness to perform the same acts despite his life so far were one of the reasons he had managed to defeat Voldemort, in the end.

If he wasn’t so relieved, Ron might have been put off by how things just slid into place. They fell into a rhythm as they fell into October, the three of them a constant presence together. Ron returned to meals in the Great Hall, and he didn’t think he imagined the relieved looks Fred and George sent his way, or the smile on McGonagall’s face when they passed each other heading to the Great Hall, that first day after he’d eaten three consecutive meals with the rest of his classmates.

Hermione bullied them into studying and doing their homework in the overbearing manner that had once been so irritating to him. Was, in fact, _still_ irritating, but he had too much fondness for her and her habits to do more than give a token whine in protest. He had to remind himself that they’d only known each other in this life for almost two months. The teasing he wanted to do would need to wait until she was more sure of him and, ostensibly, he more sure of her. The fact that she knew and accepted that he had known her in a “vision” made his occasional mistakes less catastrophic. The moments when he would comment with something this version of her had never told him, but he still inexplicably knew. The names of her parents at one point, her favorite subject in muggle school at another. She seemed to take it in stride, which he appreciated, because try as he might, he struggled with keeping the timelines straight in his mind – what he knew, what he shouldn’t know, what he couldn’t speak of. Still, he tried not to fall into bad habits. He didn’t want to rely on her easy acceptance, get into the habit of mentioning things to her he shouldn’t know, and then slip up with someone who wasn’t Hermione or Harry, someone who _didn’t_ know, _couldn’t know_ , of his future knowledge (whether they believed it visions or the time travel it really was). So he tried his best to keep this timeline, this version of his friends, in his mind.

As the days wore on and he fell into step with them, it became easier. It was like he was settling into place. As though he had been here but had been off-set, his motions not quite matched up with those of his compatriots, but something had altered the rhythm of his movements are a few weeks of upset, and finally, he was matching their pace. As best he could, considering the circumstances.

Classes were… oddly harder than he had expected. Harder and easier, if he were being honest. Schoolwork had never been his focus that first go around. Hermione had been blissfully obsessive over knowledge; particularly theory, though she was no slouch at the practical. Harry would obsess with prejudice, his focus on those things that could assist him at a particular moment, help him with a problem or task, at the detriment to other subjects. It made him terrifyingly proficient at things people wouldn’t have expected him to be able to conquer. The Patronus Charm was a big one, of course. A thirteen-year-old being capable of driving off a hundred or so dementors was such a feat that even if Harry had been able to tell anyone without revealing his and Hermione’s time turner adventure, no one would have believed him. Ron did, of course, but Ron had also seen Harry stumbling out of the Chamber of Secrets with a bloody sword and his very-much-alive-thank-Merlin little sister, a tale about a giant basilisk on his lips and a new scar on his arm.

Ron had seen those feats first hand and he wished Harry had been around then, at the end of it, when Hermione sent him back. If he had been able to come back, with Ron alongside him or alone, there would be none of this mad dashing for sanity that Ron was struggling through. Harry would take one look at the problem and make a bee-line for the answer. It’s what he did.

Merlin, Ron wished he was here.

His knowledge of spells aided him in performing those he had been skilled with at the end. Like Hermione and Harry and the rest of the students in the DA or those who had been in the Order before it fell, Ron knew how to fight. He knew how to utilize spells like the Jelly Legs jinx or a tickling hex to turn a battle in his favor. He also knew how to kill. He’d mastered Flitwick’s hovering charm a lifetime ago, back in that first year, but being taught the spell was a kick in the chest, because it reminded him of exactly _how_ he had mastered it.

He’d forgotten the troll.

* * *

“Ron, tell us what’s wrong!”

 _Us._ Tell _us_ what’s wrong.

 _Us_ , because they were friends now, Hermione, Harry, and himself. Hermione wasn’t on the outs of their little group because she was socially awkward and Ron was an asshole with severe jealousy issues concerning sharing his best friend. Hermione would _not_ spend the Halloween Feast in the girl’s bathroom and then get attacked by a giant mountain troll and nearly killed because Ron was a pathetic tosser. They’d had Flitwick’s class on hovering charms and Ron had earned ten points successfully casting the charm before Hermione had even tried, and how had he not noticed that first go-around that she was waiting for someone else to perform the spell before her? He’d cast the charm and sent his feather soaring into the air, and Flitwick had clapped and awarded him points and Hermione had _beamed_ at him, that proud smile that made his whole face burn.

And Seamus had blown up his feather, just like last time, but that was okay. This time, Ron hadn’t made a callous comment that sent Hermione running away in tears. She was fine. She was _fine_. It was all going to be _fine_.  

“Ron!”

He thought about Quirrell. Stuttering, stupid-seeming, scheming Professor Quirrell, who had Voldemort’s serpentine face on the back of his skull, just biding his time. He thought about a faint that was really a feint, causing terror and chaos in a bunch of school children that distracted the teachers whose first job was to _protect_. But protect what? There were students, but then there was a stone, capable of granting Voldemort his life back, and he couldn’t have it. Ron couldn’t let him get to it.

_“Troll in the dungeons. Thought you ought to know.”_

In the _dungeons._

Because, when it came down to it, Ron didn’t _just_ come back for Harry and Hermione. Not really. He’d come back for everyone else, too.

* * *

By the time the Halloween Feast finally arrived, Ron was a mess of nervous energy. He’d tried to go to Professor McGonagall, but she had been overseeing a detention elsewhere in the castle. Snape had been the one to catch him asking and had forbidden him from interrupting her, sending him back to Gryffindor Tower. Ron had gone to Flitwick’s Office instead (he’d had to ask directions from a painting when it apparently wasn’t next to his classroom), but the charms professor wasn’t there. When he’d gone to the staff room hoping to find someone _there_ , he’d encountered Snape _again_.

Ron got two days of detention to start with, then three more for “talking back to a professor” when he’d tried to argue his case. So much for the professors being there when he needed help. Then again, he hadn’t expected much from Snape besides that.

Quirrell was out, since he was part of the problem. McGonagall out of reach, Flitwick missing, Snape an arse. He’d actually attempted to go see Dumbledore, but he’d almost made it to the gargoyle when he realized Snape was actually following him. Greasy arse.

He’d headed back toward Gryffindor Tower, trotting up staircases, trying to think of a plan. He was just stepping off the staircase onto the third floor when it started to move. He’d glanced back to see Snape halfway up it, his thunderous expression shifting into something startled when he realized that his path was being altered, not by Ron, but by the whims of Hogwarts. Ron didn’t spend more than a second considering it. He took the chance offered and jogged down the hall, ignoring the angry shout of “Weasley!” behind him.

He was sure Dumbledore could affect the staircases but didn’t know about professors. Snape being a Head of House could go either way. So the first short cut he came to that he remembered from the Marauders’ Map, Ron took. He slipped behind the portrait of the cats playing Exploding Snape and dashed down the narrow corridor. It was perhaps ten steps but it took him from the second floor and spit him out (literally; he nearly face-planted at the force of the regurgitation) at the entrance to the North Tower.

The Divination Classroom.

Ron stared for a moment. The trap door was open and the rope ladder lowered. Those classes had been beyond memorable and there was no way he could forget that Trelawney never lowered the rope ladder unless she was expecting someone.

He groaned and dropped his head. He was hoping this could wait until third year, or, you know, never. That didn’t look like it was going to work.

He heard footsteps behind him, echoing from within the secret passage, and it made Ron’s reluctant decision for him. He grabbed the rungs of the ladder and climbed, and he noticed that the ladder was rolling upward beneath him, each time he took a new step. He climbed quickly, hoisting himself up into the room, and the ladder rolled up through the opening and the trap door swung shut. A moment later, muffled, he heard the wall he had come out of gag and vomit, and Snape cursing as he no doubt staggered from being expelled from the trap.

He waited for what seemed an eternity, expecting Snape to come flying through the trap door any second. But the cursing grew muffled and distant as the Potions professor walked away.

The wall belched loudly and there was a final angry yell, and then silence.

Snape had gone.

“It seems Fate has brought you to my door sooner than we both expected, my dear.”

Aaaaand Snape would probably be the lesser of evils in this circumstance. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

Ron turned around, trying to hide his grimace. “Hello, Professor Trelawney.”

She looked the same as she ever had. Wild black hair sticky out in a curly mass, her large, thick glasses making her eyes look huge. She reminded Ron of a praying mantis and he wondered idly if she’d ever bitten of someone’s head while—

You know what, he didn’t need to think about his professors and sex in the same moment. Nope. Not going there.

“Well, my dear, are you just going to stand there in the door? Come in, come in.”

Ron exhaled a sigh, resigned, and moved into the room.

It was, he noticed immediately, not filled with the cloying scents of too much incense. In faint, there was simply a faint, gentle smell in the air – something smooth and earthy that seemed to settle his nerves. There was a moment of uncertainty, near panic, but that was chased away a second later as he inhaled again.

There was a warm chuckle behind him and then Trelawney stepped past. There was still that air of mystery surrounding her, certainly, but it lacked the... melodrama she usually displayed. She was being almost subtle. It was _weird_.

Was this another thing he had changed? Was this something he had altered simply by being here, by knowing? He didn’t know how to ask. Didn’t know what would give him a proper answer, since the only one who knew the truth of the future was him, and this timeline was as much the same as it was different. He didn’t know Trelawney then outside of classes and exams. There was no way for him to know if this here was the truth of her then, as well, or something different – something new.

“You think terribly loud, my dear.” She settled herself on a large cushion next to a small table, facing him and the door behind him. He had a brief thought of Harry, who hadn’t been able to sit with his back to a door since that fight in the Department of Mysteries, but Trelawney didn’t seem interested in keeping her eyes on the entrance to her tower. Instead, she focused on the tray of tea and cakes that appeared on the small table, lifting the steaming pot and pouring a cup for Ron and then for herself.

“How do you like your tea, Mister Weasley?” The question was redundant, because he watched, confused, as she prepared the cup closer to him exactly as he always drank it – three spoons of sugar and a squeeze of lemon.

Ron sat down on the cushion across from her and watched as she prepared her tea. Milk, no sugar. She stirred idly, staring into the tea as milk swirling in a stream of white through dark liquid, twisting in patterns that seemed to catch his eye, draw him in…

“Drink your tea, Mister Weasley.”

Ron blinked as though coming out of a daze and shook himself. He looked down at the table where he had planted his hands without realizing, palms flat. He peeled them off and reached for his cup. It was cooler than he had anticipated, barely warm, in fact. He took a large gulp of the tea, suddenly thirsty, and nearly choked. The tea was bitter, coating the inside of his mouth with a foul, weedy taste.

“Drink your tea and I’ll read your leaves,” Trelawney said idly. Her own cup was empty, he noticed, and she was studying the residue within.

Ron tilted his cup back and drank the bitter concoction as quickly as his taste buds would allow, then dropped the cup back onto the table with a shudder of revulsion. He was tempted to ask her what the tea was so he could _never drink it again_.

“Dandelion is an acquired taste,” she said, her voice still soft, but lacking the showmanship he was used to. She reached for his cup and cradled it gently in her hands, studying the leaves.

“The rabbit is prevalent within your leaves, but you have come back from the Never Was, so that is no surprise. It is blurred with the raven. Someone died to bring you here.”

Ron’s stomach clenched on the taste of bitter weeds. _Hermione_.

Trelawney was slowly turning the cup in her hands, speaking in that gentle, airy voice that suggested she was talking from somewhere far away. “A wavy line… your path is uncertain, lined with dangers. You have passed the scissors already. A friendship threatened has been saved. There is strength there now and the scissors are broken. It can no longer be harmed.”

 _Harry._ And they were stronger. They’d overcome their argument and were friends despite the roughness. And Ron was being a better friend this time than he had before.

“The hourglass. You have a decision to make and you are running short on time. The dagger is hanging above it. There is danger in your decision, and power. What you decide will change the course of events that unfold before you. The owl… gossip, but it’s unclear how that will assist you… aah, the tent. Hidden truths, whispered secrets. Is this a book here… you’ll find your answers in writing, or perhaps they will be written? This speaks of someone else, I think. A friend? No, no. A mountain. There is an obstacle before you. You might conquer it, if you are brave and clever enough. But not alone, no. The triangle tells of three. Three sides, three people. Three chances.” She turned the cup but shook her head and set it back on the table.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I can see nothing else in the leaves to assist you. If we had the time, a different sort of tea… a cup, one of my blue ones, perhaps? But no, no, you must leave.” She stood suddenly, sweeping past him in a graceful move, and he heard the trap door lift.

He stood up and leaned over, looking down into his cup.

All that she had seen was gone, if it had ever been there. The residue from the loose tea lay on the bottom of the cup in a single pile, smooth, curved edges. He tilted his head.

“Professor, what does a vase mean?” he asked before he could think better of it.

He heard the rope ladder fall, tumbling down to hang in the corridor below the trap door.

“A friend needs help,” she said succinctly, and when he turned to look at her, he found she was staring at him with a serious expression, lacking any sort of dramatic acting. “So you best hurry.”

Ron didn’t know whether or not to believe her. They had always said that Trelawney was the biggest fraud they’d ever known. Except, she _had_ given prophecies – two that they knew of – and though Hermione had argued with fervor at admitting it, they had looked back on some of the things she had “predicted” in what seemed over-dramatized acting, and there was truth in a lot of it. Even her ridiculous, over-the-top exclamations about The Grim had turned out to be truth, after a fashion. And she seemed different here. It could be a fluke but… something made him want to believe her, if only because not believing her and turning out to be wrong could be so much worse.

Ron gripped the side of the trap door and swung down onto the ladder, lowering himself carefully. He was halfway down when he heard her make a sound and looked up to find himself staring into vacant eyes. Her voice, when it came out, was a raspy groan that made goosebumps rise on his arms.

“Strike the hammer and the lock will open,” she rasped in her choking voice. “Strike once for attention. Twice for uncertainty. Thrice to convince. Four times for action. The fifth to burden. Six times to break. Strike a seventh and listen. The spider is at the table. Strike the hammer and the lock will open.”

Ron stared at her, open-mouthed. This. This is what Harry had meant when he told them of the prophecy she had spouted in third year, the one about Pettigrew escaping. He had described her rasping voice, the vacant expression, but it had all seemed to put-on. Yet another show she was enacting for her audience. But this was no show. He could feel it in the air, an oppressive, burning force – the feeling of a storm rising around him, a smell like something burning. There was power here and he knew it, and it terrified him.

Trelawney blinked, looked down at him, and whatever the expression on her face, he couldn’t read it.

“Come back for tea sometime again, Mister Weasley. I’ll use something other than dandelion next time.”

Then she pushed the trap door over and it slammed shut above him, effectively ending the conversation and leaving him with more questions than answers.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

* * *

Daphne stared into the mirror above the sink, her face a mask of apathy. She dared not show her true emotion and bring shame to her House or to her family. She was a Greengrass and they were known for their calm and their neutrality, despite the common belief that they were dark. She might despise this foolish holiday celebration forced upon her, but she would not show it.

They couldn’t stop her feeling it, though, and inside, she burned with rage. Mandatory. The stupid Halloween Feast was mandatory. Her mother and father had warned her but she had hoped somehow that they had been wrong, or that the stupid oaf of a headmaster would have come to his senses and let his students celebrate the turning of the seasons. Not this muggle-made farce that twisted the celebration of the harvest into some Neanderthal need to stuff their face full of sweets.

She wanted to burn her Hogwarts letter where it sat in the bottom of her trunk and go home. She hated it here.

She’d been offered a place at Beauxbatons. She’d been offered a chance to go to a school that didn’t turn its prejudiced eyes away from those it deemed unworthy. Oh yes, Hogwarts was very pro-muggle-born and that was fine, as far as Daphne was concerned, but she didn’t think being pro-muggle-born meant anti-everything-else. Their holiday celebrations were being twisted into the disgusting, blasphemous creations that had been forced on the muggles centuries ago. Did the Wizarding World truly need to follow in those footsteps? Samhain was important.

Daphne stared out over the parapet. The sun was setting, turning the sky a vivid orange. Were she home, her father would have prepared the bonfire for burning. She and Astoria would have been allowed to assist, as usual, lashing long wooden sticks together to form a pyramid-like structure over a pile of logs and sticks. They would carefully plan out the area where their mother would perform a shield spell to keep the fire contained. It would be just about now, as the sun was setting, that their father would light the kindling. She and Astoria would watch as thin strips of wood burned, curling up from the heat, and the fire grew and grew, until the whole thing burned as bright as the sun, taller than even their tall, slender mother. They would spend the night out there, the darkness chased away by the blazing inferno, giving thanks for the food that fed them, the elves that served them, the trees that shaded them and protected them from wind. October turning into September meant Autumn and the chill of coming Winter. It meant the world would slumber around them, trees losing their leaves, animals leaving for warmer weather or hibernating. The world would quiet, the sources they had of food and shelter and life slipping away, and they had to be sure to give thanks, to say farewell, lest they feel unwelcome and not return in Spring.

_We give thanks for this harvest, that we might have plentiful food for the winter, and that the seeds we plant come Spring will bring rise to new life._

They didn’t celebrate Samhain at Hogwarts. Halloween was a party, a feast, candy and tricks and games, and there were elements of the old ways in that, yes, but where was the gratitude. Where was the solemn bow given to the spirits who carried life away for the season, who blessed their crops and made them grow? Where was the thanks given to the house elves, who served them meals from their harvest? How could they be so confident that the winter would be a safe one, that there would be enough, when they did not give thanks.

_“I don’t understand,” Daphne told her mother as the woman twisted braids into her hair. “What am I to do if I cannot celebrate Samhain?”_

_“Eat dinner, talk with your House-mates, go to bed on time.” The woman tied off her braid and kissed the top of her head. “Finish all of your homework.”_

_“Mother. I do not understand.”_

_Her mother looked down at her with eyes that seemed so sad. “I know, darling. Someday you will, but not yet.” And why, she wondered, did that sound less like a declaration and more like a prayer?_

Daphne stared at her reflection in the mirror and made certain that none of her irritation shown on her face. If she was going to go out and celebrate this muggle-manipulated farce, then she was going to show herself as completely unaffected by it. Dumbledore could have his stupid muggle holidays. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction he so clearly desired by being bothered at all. She was a Greengrass and they were above such things.

She stepped out of the bathroom and into her dorm to find Pansy in a snit, which wasn’t unusual. “Ugh, Daph _neee_ ,” the girl whined in revulsion, “there is an owl in here for you. Get it _out_.”

Daphne glanced at the bed opposite hers where her best friend was sitting. Tracy rolled her eyes.

Daphne kept her smile from showing only with practice and turned to study the owl. Each of them had a small desk at the end of their bed and a chair pushed up against it. Daphne used hers nightly but kept it meticulously clean. Presently, it had a bottle of ink and a quill lying ready for use next to a couple rolls of blank parchment, and a small envelope in the middle of the desk. The owl sat on the back of the chair, in between the envelope and the two other girls in the room, eyeing them both with large dark eyes in a light-feathered face. The owl’s head was disproportionally large compared to its tiny body. Its wings were black, but its belly was a soft golden color.

It was adorable, and completely unfamiliar. Daphne knew the owls of her friends because they frequently exchanged letters, those that she had grown up with. She hadn’t made any new friends here at Hogwarts and honestly expected she wasn’t going to. After all, she was in Slytherin.

Reaching around the owl, Daphne picked up the envelope. It was thin and light. Paper, not parchment. Muggle-made.

She knew Tracy’s views on muggles didn’t differ much from her own. They had nothing against them or against muggleborns, but for the sake of their safety, they, like their families, stood in a neutral light. To many, particularly those who were heavily allied with either the light or dark side, this was viewed as choosing the opposing side, but there were many who accepted the neutrality, at least for now. If another war broke out, Daphne knew, like her sister knew from their parents’ lessons growing up, that their neutrality would not likely be accepted a second time.

Daphne knew, just as well, that the Parkinson family was allied with the dark, had stood with Voldemort in the last war, and likely would again if a second chance arose.

She slipped the envelope into the pocket of her robes before Pansy could get a good look at it and determine that it wasn’t from a wizarding family. Then she grabbed a few books from her trunk and reached out for the owl, who climbed carefully onto her outstretched hand. A well-trained owl, then, who was aware of his sharp talons and accustomed to being carried by unprotected arms. Daphne was even more curious now to determine to whom he belonged.

She turned to Tracy, ignoring Pansy completely. That was part of an ongoing plan she didn’t intend to give up just because a strange owl showed up with a mysterious letter. “I’m going to the library. Would you care to join me?”

“What are you studying for?” Tracy asked, not taking her eyes off the magazine she was looking through. The front of it was glamoured to look like a designer dress robe magazine, but Daphne suspected it was really a magazine about broomsticks. Tracy was utterly obsessed with Quidditch. It was dull.

“Potions,” Daphne said, which was also dull, and true. She respected Snape as her Head of House, but the man was repugnant as a professor. He couldn’t teach anything. That idiot Goyle had bumped into her last class and she’d dropped a whole handful of fennel into her potion. Only Tracy’s skill and quick thinking had saved her cauldron exploding and coating them all in engorging paste. Likely defective engorging paste. Ugh. Why did she need this class?

“Pass,” Tracy said, sounding bored. She’d only asked because if Daphne had answered Transfiguration or Charms, Tracy would know she wanted to talk rather than study, since those were Daphne’s two best classes. Defense would replace Charms, she suspected, if they had a professor who wasn’t a complete idiot, but at least she had Transfiguration.

But while she wholly intended to read the mysterious letter she had received, Daphne really did need to study, and honestly, studying Potions would be such a bore to her. She was already on third year material and they were only two months into school.

Oh, if only one of her parents had been a Potions Master, Daphne might not be utterly lost.

“Suit yourself.” Daphne turned and left the room without another word. She heard Pansy give an angry huff at being ignored, but didn’t pay it much attention. If all went well, in another month, Pansy would understand that if there was going to be a queen in Slytherin House, it was going to be Daphne Greengrass. She was going to make sure everyone knew it right from the start. Especially Pansy Parkinson.

* * *

The library was a quiet place. Madam Pince liked it that way and she got what she wanted through sheer intimidation. Hermione didn’t mind. She liked books and she liked the quiet. So long as Madam Pince let her take out as many books as she wanted, she didn’t mind that the woman remained aloof and unresponsive to gestures of familiarity. Hermione was accustomed to professors holding themselves distant, but this was well beyond that. Madam Pince had no desire for social connections at all, apparently, but that was fine. Hermione would settle for her books.

Of course, as much as she wanted to, she wasn’t here for her wonderful books. She was here for Ron, who wanted her to stick something inside a book and then _leave_ , without taking anything with her. She was tempted to stay and see what was going to happen, but he had been adamant that she put the small envelope inside the book he had designated and get out immediately. No matter how strong the siren song of the books was to her, she recognized the nervousness in his voice as still more important.

So she made her way through the aisles, searching for _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. The tome was small and old, but the red binding was still brightly colored and easy to pick out. Hermione pulled it from the shelf and flipped through it, searching for the right page. When she found it, she stuck the envelope inside, closed the book around it, and slid it back onto the shelf.

She hesitated only a moment, then turned and left, lamenting that she wouldn’t get her answers until after the Halloween Feast that evening. Ron had been adamant about that, too. Not until they were back safe in the Common Room, he’d said, as though a feast could be dangerous beyond all those sweets and the impact on wizards’ teeth.

Hermione sighed loudly as she moved past a pretty girl with a green and silver tie. She hated waiting.

* * *

Daphne moved past the Gryffindor girl with the bushy hair and made her way to one of the tables in a corner of the library. She set her books down and hesitated. She really should go find the book on Potions she’d wanted to use for her essay, but she could feel the flimsy paper of the envelope in her pocket crumbling at the weight of her robes. The owl that had delivered it had taken off at the first window she’d passed once out of the dungeons and curiosity had burned at her the whole way here.

Oh, Potions could wait for five minutes. It couldn’t be a very large letter.

In fact, it was only two sentences long.

**_The path to the dungeons will not be safe tonight._ **

**_Fantastic Beasts, page 11._ **

Daphne stared at the letter. The dungeons wouldn’t be safe? Why not? And Fantastic Beasts? Well, she’d read _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ before, but her own copy was back in her dormitory. She hadn’t needed it for Potions. She sighed. The library had a copy, of course, but she needed to finish her Potions essay before the feast tonight.

She folded the note up and stuffed it back in the envelope, tucking it inside one of her books and heading to the aisle that focused on Potions. She found the book she wanted easily and returned to her table, sitting down with her half-finished essay and a quill.

She’d been writing for half an hour before she finally slammed the quill down on the desk, earning herself a stern look from the librarian. This was the fifth time she’d written “beasts” instead of “ingredients.” Damnit, but she couldn’t get that stupid note out of her head. She was already going to have to rewrite this essay, but as she read back over what she had written, thinking herself almost done, she realized she had repeated herself twice and was only making redundant comments at this point. Snape would never accept this.

With a groan, she shoved the parchment away from her and stood up from the desk. She would just find the stupid book and look at page eleven and then her curiosity would be satisfied and she could actually get some work done.

She did _not_ stomp over to the aisle on magical creatures. She did not. She was perfectly graceful. Like a lady.

She scowled as she scanned the shelves. It took her only a moment to find the familiar book. Pulling it from the shelf, she opened it to page eleven, and found another envelope.

She blinked in actual surprise. What if she hadn’t come for this particular book? What if she’d looked in her own copy?

Taking the envelope, Daphne slid the book back on the shelf and returned to the desk. She opened it carefully, pulling out the same kind of paper that the last note had been written on. Muggle-crafted, not parchment. The envelope, too.

Opening the folded note, she read the words.

**_It’s going to be let loose during the feast and Dumbledore will send everyone back to their Common Rooms. Stay in the Great Hall._ **

What was going to be let loose? Daphne frowned at the note, then rolled her eyes at herself. She went back to the aisle and pulled the book off the shelf again, opening it to page eleven.

The top of the page held the name of the entry in calligraphic script.

Daphne stared for a moment, then looked at the note again, then back to the book.

A troll? A _troll_ was going to be let loose during the Halloween Feast?

Right. And this person knew this _how_ exactly.

“Stupid pranks,” she muttered, and slid the book back onto the shelf.

She didn’t have time to deal with idiotic pranksters. She had a Potions essay to write, and Snape was more dangerous than any stupid troll, imaginary or otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who enjoy following along with the meta-bits of my writing, Trelawney's reading of the tea leaves was really, _really_ fun to write. It involved some research into common symbology in Divination, and I kept my notes. Now, I'm including everything that each of these characters can represent, but you'll notice I didn't use them all, as it is often a "this or that" when it comes to meaning. 
> 
> RABBIT - need for bravery, time and illusion, Alice in Wonderland  
> RAVEN - bad news, death that leads to new beginnings  
> LINES - if straight means progress; if wavy means uncertain path  
> SCISSORS - quarrels, possibly separation  
> HOURGLASS - time running out, need to decide something, synchronicity, illusion, creation  
> OWL - gossip, scandal, aliens owl symbology  
> TENT - travel, cover, hidden truth  
> BOOK - you will find your answer by something written, if open it's good news; if closed you need to investigate something  
> MOUNTAIN - obstacles or a specific area  
> TRIANGLE - something unexpected, 3 in a relationship, pyramids, 3, third dimension  
> HAMMER - hard work needed, getting a point across  
> LOCK - obstacles if closed - new information unfolding if open, lock and key are phallic symbols of creation  
> SPIDER - weaving together, Spider Woman Prophecies  
> TABLE - social gatherings, UFO platform, outside the box


End file.
